A Crier Of Green Sauce.

Row On [whatever Happens]. [lat., Vogue La Galere.]

But Where Are The Snows Of Last Year? That Was The Greatest Concern Of Villon, The Parisian Poet.

I Never Sleep In Comfort Save When I Am Hearing A Sermon Or Praying To God.

I Know Of A Charm By Way Of A Prayer That Will Preserve A Man From The Violence Of Guns And All Manner Of Fire-weapons And Engines But It Will Do Me No Good Because I Do Not Believe It

The Probity That Scintillizes In The Superfices Of Your Persons Informs My Ratiocinating Faculty, In A Most Stupendous Manner, Of The Radiant Virtues Latent Within The Precious Caskets And Ventricles Of Your Minds.