Every Sin Brings Its Punishment With It.

Such A Saint, Such An Offering.

I Read, And Sigh, And Wish I Were A Tree; For Sure Then I Should Grow To Fruit Or Shade: At Least Some Bird Would Trust Her Household To Me, And I Should Be Just.

Sink Not In Spirit; Who Aimeth At The Sky Shoots Higher Much Than He That Means A Tree.

The Tree That Growes Slowly, Keepes It Selfe For Another.

He That Sings On Friday, Will Weepe On Sunday.