And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth

How Low Am I, Thou Painted Maypole?

Well-apparel'd April On The Heel Of Limping Winter Treads.

Out, You Tallow-face! You Baggage!

I’ll Look To Like, If Looking Liking Move; But No More Deep Will I Endart Mine Eye Than Your Consent Gives Strength To Make It Fly.

O, What A World Of Vile Ill-favored Faults, Looks Handsome In Three Hundred Pounds A Year!