O Death, Made Proud With

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.

'sblood, You Starveling, You Elf-skin, You Dried Neat's Tongue, You Bull's Pizzle, You Stock-fish! O For Breath To Utter What Is Like Thee! You Tailor's-yard, You Sheath, You Bowcase; You Vile Standing-tuck!

The Force Of His Own Merit Makes His Way-a Gift That Heaven Gives For Him.

For Many Men That Stumble At The Threshold Are Well Foretold That Danger Lurks Within.

Good Company, Good Wine, Good Welcome, Can Make Good People.