To A Child All Weather Is Cold.

'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.'

Much Spends The Traveller, More Then The Abider.

One Enemy Is Too Much.

He That Will Learn To Pray, Let Him Go To Sea.

Faire Words Makes Mee Looke To My Purse.