There Is No More Mercy In Him

What Is Past Is Prologue.

Tis Ever Common That Men Are Merriest When They Are From Home.

Honor, Riches, Marriage-blessing Long Continuance, And Increasing, Hourly Joys Be Still Upon You!

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

To Think But Nobly Of My Grandmother: Good Wombs Have Borne Bad Sons.