The Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.

I Feel My Griefs Too, And There Scarce Is Ground Upon My Flesh T'inflict Another Wound. Yet Dare I Not Complain, Or Wish For Death With Holy Paul; Lest It Be Thought The Breath Of Discontent; Or That These Prayers Be For Weariness Of Life, Not Love Of Thee.

Indeed There's A Woundy Luck In Names.

God Wisheth None Should Wreck On A Strange Shelf: To Him Man's Dearer Than To Himself.

Who Falls For Love Of God, Shall Rise A Star.

Court A Mistress, She Denies You; Let Her Alone, She Will Court You.