Licence My Roving Hands, And Let Them

Now God Comes To Thee, Not As In The Dawning Of The Day, Not As In The Bud Of The Spring, But As The Sun At Noon To Illustrate All Shadows, As The Sheaves In Harvest, To Fill All Penuries, All Occasions Invite His Mercies, And All Times Are His Seasons.

Festive Alcohol Sometimes Leads To An Excess Of Honesty.

I Am A Little World Made Cunningly.

True Joy Is The Earnest Which We Have Of Heaven, It Is The Treasure Of The Soul, And Therefore Should Be Laid In A Safe Place, And Nothing In This World Is Safe To Place It In.

Despair Is The Damp Of Hell, As Joy Is The Serenity Of Heaven.