The Honey Is Sweet, But The Bee

Where There Is Peace, God Is.

Reckon Right, And February Hath One And Thirty Daies.

Rise, Heart; Thy Lord Is Risen. Sing His Praise Without Delays, Who Takes Thee By The Hand, That Thou Likewise With Him Mayst Rise: That, As His Death Calcined Thee To Dust, His Life May Make Thee Gold, And, Much More, Just.

The Perswasion Of The Fortunate Swaies The Doubtfull.

None Saies His Garner Is Full.