Leave Us To Our Free Election.

I Would Fain Die A Dry Death.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.

Out Of This Nettle - Danger - We Pluck This Flower - Safety.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.

Company, Villainous Company, Hath Been The Spoil Of Me.