Not All The Water In The Rough

On Pain Of Death, No Person Be So Bold.

O Jest Unseen, Inscrutable, Invisible, As A Nose On A Man's Face, Or A Weathercock On A Steeple.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

There's Nothing Ill Can Dwell In Such A Temple. If The Ill Spirit Have So Fair A House, Good Things Will Strive To Dwell With't

Tis A Cruelty To Load A Fallen Man.