Had I But Served My God With

There Is A Devilish Mercy In The Judge, If You'll Implore It, That Will Free Your Life, But Fetter You Till Death.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.

Pause Awhile, And Let My Counsel Sway You.

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?