I In My Own House Am An

What Pity 'tis, One That Can Speak So Well, Should In His Actions Be So Ill!

My Dancing Days Are Past.

Cheerful Looks Make Every Dish A Feast, And It Is That Which Crowns A Welcome.

Death Hath A Thousand Doors To Let Out Life.

As The Index Tells Us The Contents Of Stories And Directs To The Particular Chapter, Even So Does The Outward Habit And Superficial Order Of Garments (in Man Or Woman) Give Us A Taste Of The Spirit, And Demonstratively Point (as It Were A Manual Note From The Margin) All The Internal Quality Of The Soul; And There Cannot Be A More Evident, Palpable, Gross Manifestation Of Poor, Degenerate, Dunghilly Blood And Breeding Than A Rude, Unpolished, Disordered, And Slovenly Outside.