Necessity Makes Dastards Valiant Men.

Tis Not The Food, But The Content, That Makes The Table's Merriment.

Here A Little Child I Stand, Heaving Up My Either Hand; Cold As Paddocks Though They Be, Here I Lift Them Up To Thee, For A Benison To Fall On Our Meat, And On Us All. Amen.

Who Covets More Is Evermore A Slave.

Give House-room To The Best; 'tis Never Known Verture And Pleasure Both To Dwell In One.

In Sober Mornings Do Not Thou Rehearse The Holy Incantation Of A Verse