At The Royall Oake Taverne, I Drank

Poorpeoplestaying Intheir Houses Aslong Astill Thevery Fire Touched Them, And Then Running Into Boats Or Clambering From One Pair Of Stair By The Waterside To Another. And Among Other Things, The Poor Pigeons I Perceive Were Loath To Leave Their Houses, But Hovered About The Windows And Balconies Till They Were Some Of Them Burned, Their Wings, And Fell Down.

Unlike God The Artist Does Not Start With Nothing And Make Something Of It. He Starts With Himself As Nothing And Makes Something Of The Nothing With The Things At Hand.

My Wife, Who, Poor Wretch, Is Troubled With Her Lonely Life.

The Truth Is, I Do Indulge Myself A Little The More In Pleasure, Knowing That This Is The Proper Age Of My Life To Do It; And, Out Of My Observation That Most Men That Do Thrive In The World Do Forget To Take Pleasure During The Time That They Are Getting Their Estate, But Reserve That Till They Have Got One, And Then It Is Too Late For Them To Enjoy It.

Now Public Business Takes Up So Much Of My Time That I Must Get Time A Sundays Or A Nights To Look After My Own Matters.