The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of

Britain Is A World By Itself, And We Will Nothing Pay For Wearing Our Own Noses.

Use Every Man After His Desert, And Who Should Scape Whipping?

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

Discomfort Guides My Tongue And Bids Me Speak Of Nothing But Despair.

I Never See Thy Face But I Think Upon Hell-fire.