You Cannot Make The Fire So Low

The Sundaies Of Man's Life, Thredded Together On Time's String, Make Bracelets To Adorn The Wife Of The Eternal, Glorious King. On Sunday Heaven's Gates Stand Ope; Blessings Are Plentiful And Rife. More Plentiful Than Hope.

'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.'

Brabling Curres Never Want Torne Eares.

Drink Not The Third Glass, Which Thou Canst Not Tame, When Once It Is Within Thee; But Before Mayst Rule It, As Thou List: And Pour The Shame, Which It Would Pour On Thee, Upon The Floor. It Is Most Just To Throw That On The Ground, Which Would Throw Me There, If I Keep The Round.

To Him That Will, Waies Are Not Wanting.