This Royal Throne Of Kings, This Scepter'd

As I Love The Name Of Honour More Than I Fear Death.

Short Time Seems Long In Sorrow's Sharp Sustaining.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding. Have I Not Tarried? Ay, The Grinding; But You Must Tarry The Bolting. Have I Not Tarried? Ay, The Bolting; But You Must Tarry The Leavening. Still Have I Tarried. Ay, To The Leavening; But Here's Yet In The Word 'hereafter' The Kneading, The Making Of The Cake, The Heating Of The Oven, And The Baking; Nay, You Must Stay The Cooling Too, Or You May Chance To Burn Your Lips.

Love Hath Made Thee A Tame Snake

Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That Shall Civil Sayings Show. . . .