Look Round, The Wrecks Of Play Behold;

Fill It Up. I Take As Large Draughts Of Liquor As I Did Of Love. I Hate A Flincher In Either.

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

Is There No Hope? The Sick Man Said, The Silent Doctor Shook His Head, And Took His Leave With Signs Of Sorrow, Despairing Of His Fee To-morrow.

Exercise Thy Lasting Youth Defends.

Can You Support The Expense Of A Husband, Hussy, In Gaming, Drinking And Whoring? Have You Money Enough To Carry On The Daily Quarrels Of Man And Wife About Who Shall Squander Most?