No Evil Lost Is Wailed When It

They Have Been At A Great Feast Of Languages, And Stolen The Scraps.

A Man In All The World's New Fashion Planted, That Hath A Mint Of Phrases In His Brain.

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.

Why, Who Cries Out On Pride That Can Therein Tax Any Private Party? Doth It Not Flow As Hugely As The Sea Till The Weary Very Means Do Ebb?

Ah, What A Sign It Is Of Evil Life, Where Death's Approach Is Seen So Terrible!