One Graine Fills Not A Sacke, But

A Good Pay-master Starts Not At Assurances.

In A Long Journey Straw Waighs.

Presents Of Love Fear Not To Be Ill Taken Of Strangers.

A Flatterers Throat Is An Open Sepulcher.

'it's This Accursed Science,' I Cried. 'it's The Very Devil. The Mediaeval Priests And Persecutors Were Right, And The Moderns Are All Wrong. You Tamper With It-and It Offers You Gifts. And Directly You Take Them It Knocks You To Pieces In Some Unexpected Way.'