Foul Words Is But Foul Wind, And

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

I Cannot Draw A Cart, Nor Eat Dried Oats; If It Be Man's Work, I'll Do't.

Within The Hollow Crown That Rounds The Mortal Temples Of A King Keeps Death His Court.

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

To Business That We Love We Rise Betime, And Go To't With Delight.