He Hath Eaten Me Out Of House

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

He Hath Borne Himself Beyond The Promise Of His Age, Doing, In The Figure Of A Lamb, The Feats Of A Lion.

Virtue Is Beauty, But The Beauteous Evil. Are Empty Trunks O'erflourished By The Devil.

Britain Is A World By Itself, And We Will Nothing Pay For Wearing Our Own Noses.

In Winter's Tedious Nights Sit By The Fire With Good Old Folks, And Let Them Tell Thee Tales Of Woeful Ages, Long Ago Betid