Courage And Comfort, All Shall Yet Go

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

When Workmen Strive To Do Better Than Well, They Do Confound Their Skill In Covetousness.

No Profit Grows Where No Pleasure Is Taken.

I'll Follow Thee And Make A Heaven Of Hell, To Die Upon The Hand I Love So Well

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.