This Making Of Christians Will Raise The

For The Poor Wren (the Most Diminutive Of Birds) Will Fight, Her Young Ones In Her Nest, Against The Owl.

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

A Little Water Clears Us Of This Deed.

I Have Heard Of Your Paintings Too, Well Enough; God Has Given You One Face, And You Make Yourselves Another: You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp, And Nick-name God's Creatures, And Make Your Wantonness Your Ignorance. Go To, I'll No More On't; It Hath Made Me Mad.

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.