He that hath no good trade, it is to his losse.
Men speake of the faire, as things went with them there.
The singing man keepes his shop in his throate.
The back-doore robs the house.
'It's this accursed Science,' I cried. 'It's the very Devil. The mediaeval priests and persecutors were right, and the Moderns are all wrong. You tamper with it-and it offers you gifts. And directly you take them it knocks you to pieces in some unexpected way.'
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, a box where sweets compacted lie.