A Very Little Little Let Us Do

You Cannot Call It Love, For At Your Age The Heyday In The Blood Is Tame

Thy Food Is Such As Hath Been Belch'd On By Infected Lungs.

May Never Glorious Sun Reflex His Beams Upon The Country Where You Make Abode! But Darkness And The Gloomy Shade Of Death Environ You Till Mischief And Despair Drive You To Break Your Necks Or Hang Yourselves.

I Scorn You, Scurvy Companion.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.