You Are An Alchemist; Make Gold Of

And Where The Offense Is, Let The Great Axe Fall.

But Say, My Lord, It Were Not Regist'red, Methinks The Truth Should Live From Age To Age, As 'twere Retailed To All Posterity, Even To The General All-ending Day.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

Go Hang Yourself, You Naughty Mocking Uncle!

The Rest, Is Silence.