O God, I Could Be Bound In

Nice Customs Curtsy To Great Kings.

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind Thou Art Not So Unkind, As Man's Ingratitude.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

We Must Not Make A Scarecrow Of The Law, Setting It Up To Fear The Birds Of Prey, And Let It Keep One Shape Till Custom Make It Their Perch, And Not Their Terror.