Flesh Of My Flesh, Bone

Wickedness Comes To Its Height By Degrees. He That Dares Say Of A Less Sin, Is It Not A Little One? Will Ere Long Say Of A Greater, Tush, God Regards It Not!

O Time The Fatal Wrack Of Mortal Things, That Draws Oblivion's Curtains Over Kings; Their Sumptuous Monuments, Men Know Them Not, Their Names Without A Record Are Forgot, Their Parts, Their Ports, Their Pomps All Laid In Th' Dust Nor Wit Nor Gold, Nor Buildings Scape Time's Rust; But He Whose Name Is Graved In The White Stone Shall Last And Shine When All Of These Are Gone.

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.

Satan, That Great Angler, Hath His Sundry Baits For Sundry Tempers Of Men, Which They All Catch Greedily At, But Few Perceive The Hook Till It Be Too Late.

If We Had No Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant.