For A Quart Of Ale Is A

Ring The Alarum-bell! Blow, Wind! Come, Wrack! At Least We'll Die With Harness On Our Back.

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

This Sanguine Coward, This Bed-presser, This Horseback-breaker, This Huge Hill Of Flesh!

O Heresy In Fair, Fit For These Days, A Giving Hand, Though Foul, Shall Have Fair Praise.

I Am Such A Tender Ass, If My Hair Do But Tickle Me, I Must Scratch.