All Keyes Hang Not On One Girdle.

Give Loosers Leave To Talke.

'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.'

Throw Away Thy Rod, Throw Away Thy Wrath; O My God, Take The Gentle Path.

He That's Foolish In The Fault, Let Him Be Wise In The Punishment.

The Child Saies Nothing, But What It Heard By The Fire.