Omittance Is No Quittance.

Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With Golden Wings, Melts Them.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

Virtuous And Fair, Royal And Gracious.

Besides, Our Nearness To The King In Love Is Near The Hate Of Those Love Not The King.

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.