Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

Tis Our Fast Intent To Shake All Cares And Business From Our Age, Conferring Them On Younger Strengths, While We Unburdened Crawl Toward Death.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.

Dost Thou Love Hawking? Thou Hast Hawks Will Soar Above The Morning Lark.

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.