Thou Art A Very Ragged Wart.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

You Know That I Do Fawn On Men, And Hug Them Hard, And After Scandal Them.

Come Now, What Masques, What Dances Shall We Have To Wear Away This Long Age Of Three Hours Between Our After-supper And Bedtime?

Most Friendship Is Faining, Most Loving Mere Folly: Then, Heigh-ho, The Holly. This Life Is Most Jolly.

I'll Privily Away; I Love The People, But Do Not Like To Stage Me To Their Eyes; Though It Do Well, I Do Not Relish Well Their Loud Applause And Aves Vehement, Nor Do I Think The Man Of Safe Discretion That Does Not Affect It.