Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne

That Field Hath Eyen, And The Wood Hath Ears.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

For In Their Hearts Doth Nature Stir Them So Then People Long On Pilgrimage To Go And Palmers To Be Seeking Foreign Strands To Distant Shrines Renowned In Sundry Lands.

And Gladly Would He Learn, And Gladly Teach

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.