Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I

If I Profane With My Unworthiest Hand This Holy Shrine, The Gentle Fine Is This: My Lips, Two Blushing Pilgrims, Ready Stand To Smooth That Rough Touch With A Tender Kiss.

And Worse I May Be Yet: The Worst Is Not So Long As We Can Say 'this Is The Worst.

Unless Hours Were Cups Of Sack, And Minutes Capons, And Clocks The Tongues Of Bawds, And Dials The Signs Of Leaping-houses, And The Blessed Sun Himself A Fair Hot Wench In Flame-colored Taffeta, I See No Reason Why Thou Shouldst Be So Superfluous To Demand The Time Of The Day.

There Is No Such Sport As Sport By Sport O'erthrown.

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.