A Thankful Man Owes A

Custom Is The Most Certain Mistress Of Language, As The Public Stamp Makes The Current Money.

True Gladness Doth Not Always Speak; Joy, Bred And Born But In The Tongue, Is Weak.

Poor Worms, They Hiss At Me, Whilst I At Home Can Be Contented To Applaud Myself, . . . With Joy To See How Plump My Bags Are And My Barns.

Popular Men, They Must Create Strange Monsters, And Then Quell Them, To Make Their Arts Seem Something.

It Strikes! One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Enough, Enough, Dear Watch, Thy Pulse Hath Beat Enough. Now Sleep And Rest; Would Thou Could'st Make The Time To Do So Too; I'll Wind Thee Up No More.