There Is No Such Sport As Sport

This Act Is An Ancient Tale New Told; And, In The Last Repeating, Troublesome, Being Urged At A Time Unseasonable.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together.

The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of All.

Were All The Letters Sun, I Could Not See One.

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.