Thy Wit Is A Very

Winding Up Days With Toil And Nights With Sleep.

I Thank You All And Here Dismiss You All, And To The Love And Favor Of My Country Commit Myself, My Person, And The Cause.

Have You Not Love Enough To Bear With Me, When That Rash Humor Which My Mother Gave Me Makes Me Forgetful.

Should The Poor Be Flattered? No; Let The Candied Tongue Lick Absurd Pomp, And Crook The Pregnant Hinges Of The Knee Where Thrift May Follow Fawning.

This Is A Gift That I Have, Simple, Simple; A Foolish Extravagant Spirit Full Of Forms, Figures, Shapes, Objects, Ideas, Apprehensions, Motions, Revolutions; These Are Begot In The Ventricle Of Memory, Nourished In The Womb Of Pia Mater, And Delivered Upon The Mellowing Of Occasion.