Death Is My Son-in-law. Death Is My

Hate Pollutes The Mind.

For Such Things As You, I Can Scarce Think There's Any, Ye're So Slight.

God Has Given You One Face, And You Make Yourself Another.

If Little Faults Proceeding On Distemper Shall Not Be Winked At, How Shall We Stretch Our Eye When Capital Crimes, Chewed, Swallowed, And Digested, Appear Before Us?

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.