I Am Indeed, Sir, A Surgeon To

They Have A Plentiful Lack Of Wit.

Ships Are But Boards, Sailors But Men.

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

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.

He That Dies Pays All Debts.