The Whirligig Of Time Brings In His

Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

Polonius: Do You Know Me, My Lord? Hamlet: Excellent Well. You Are A Fishmonger.

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?

Now, Neighbor Confines, Purge You Of Your Scum! Have You A Ruffian That Will Swear, Drink, Dance, Revel The Night, Rob, Murder, And Commit The Oldest Sins The Newest Kind Of Ways?

Your Wisdom Is Consum'd In Confidence. Do Not Go Forth To-day.