What My Tongue Dares Not That My

Divers Philosophers Hold That The Lips Is Parcel Of The Mouth.

Like As The Waves Make Towards The Pebbl'd Shore, So Do Our Minutes, Hasten To Their End.

He That Sleeps Feels Not The Tooth-ache

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.

A Loud Laugh Bespeaks A Vacant Mind!