These Times Of Woe Afford No Time

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

Hang There Like Fruit, My Soul, Till The Tree Die!

That Which Hath Made Them Drunk Hath Made Me Bold; What Hath Quenched Them Hath Given Me Fire.

Bondage Is Hoarse, And May Not Speak Aloud.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?