Bid The Dishonest Man Mend Himself; If

I Am Joined With No Foot Land-rakers, No Long-staff, Sixpenny Strikers, None Of These Mad, Mustachio Purple-hued Maltworms, But With Nobility And Tranquillity.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

Promising Is The Very Air O' The Time; It Opens The Eyes Of Expectation.

For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood.