Tis Not The Food, But The Content,

What Is A Kiss? Why This, As Some Approve: The Sure, Sweet Cement, Glue, And Lime Of Love.

Necessity Makes Dastards Valiant Men.

The Body Is The Soul's Poor House Or Home, Whose Ribs The Laths Are And Whose Flesh The Loam.

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

Tis Hard To Find God, But To Comprehend Him, As He Is, Is Labour Without End.