A Hand As Fruitful As

O, She Misused Me Past The Endurance Of A Block.

Beggar That I Am, I Am Even Poor In Thanks, But I Thank You; And Sure, Dear Friends, My Thanks Are Too Dear A Halfpenny.

What A Terrible Era In Which Idiots Govern The Blind.

There Are A Sort Of Men, Whose Visages Do Cream And Mantle, Like A Standing Pond; And Do A Willful Stillness Entertain, With Purpose To Be Dressed In An Opinion Of Wisdom, Gravity Profound Conceit; As Who Should Say, I Am Sir Oracle, And When I Ope My Lips, Let No Dog Bark!

O, That Our Fathers Would Applause Our Loves, To Seal Our Happiness With Hteir Consents!