My Wits Begin To Turn.

That Is Not The Best Sermon Which Makes The Hearers Go Away Talking To One Another And Praising The Speaker, But Which Makes Them Go Away Thoughtful And Serious, And Hastening To Be Alone.

Lord, Lord, How This World Is Given To Lying!

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony

When Devils Will The Blackest Sins Put On They Do Suggest At First With Heavenly Shows

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.