The Barge She Sat In, Like A

Your Worm Is Your Only Emperor For Diet; We Fat All Creatures Else To Fat Us, And We Fat Ourselves For Maggots.

The Clock Upbraids Me With The Waste Of Time.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told.

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.