There Is None Of My Uncle's Marks

Never Anything Can Be Amiss, When Simpleness And Duty Tender It.

And He Goes Through Life, His Mouth Open, And His Mind Closed.

I Understand A Fury In Your Words But Not Your Words.

Fight To The Last Gasp.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!