Ther's No Great Banquet But Some Fares

The Morning Sunne Never Lasts A Day.

Who Will Make A Doore Of Gold Must Knock A Naile Every Day.

Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like Seasoned Timber, Never Gives.

Dry Feet, Warme Head, Bring Safe To Bed.

'it's This Accursed Science,' I Cried. 'it's The Very Devil. The Mediaeval Priests And Persecutors Were Right, And The Moderns Are All Wrong. You Tamper With It-and It Offers You Gifts. And Directly You Take Them It Knocks You To Pieces In Some Unexpected Way.'