O All You Host Of Heaven! O

Put Forth Thy Hand, Reach At The Glorious Gold.

Thy Friendship Makes Us Fresh.

Love's Not Love When It Is Mingled With Regards That Stand Aloof From Th' Entire Point.

So Doth The Greater Glory Dim The Less: A Substitute Shines Brightly As A King Until A King Be By.

Who Has A Book Of All That Monarchs Do, He's More Secure To Keep It Shut Than Shown; For Vice Repeated Is Like The Wand'ring Wind, Blows Dust In Others' Eye, To Spread Itself; And Yet The End Of All Is Bought Thus Dear, The Breath Is Gone, And The Sore Eyes See Clear To Stop The Air Would Hurt Them.