Satan, That Great Angler, Hath His Sundry

That When We Live No More, We May Live Ever

My Love Is Such That Rivers Cannot Quench, Nor Ought But Love From Thee, Give Recompence. Thy Love Is Such I Can No Way Repay, The Heavens Reward Thee Manifold I Pray.

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

If We Had Not Winter, The Spring Would Not Be So Pleasant; If We Did Not Sometimes Taste Of Adversity, Prosperity Would Not Be So Welcome.

Sweet Words Are Like Honey, A Little May Refresh, But Too Much Gluts The Stomach.