By The Pricking Of My Thumbs, Something

Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

Would The Cook Were O' My Mind!

The Path Is Smooth That Leadeth On To Danger.

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

They Are Fairies; He That Speaks To Them Shall Die. I'll Wink And Couch; No Man Their Works Must Eye.