I Am Wealthy In My Friends.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.

There Is A Willow Grows Aslant A Brook, That Shows His Hoar Leaves In The Glassy Stream; There With Fantastic Garlands Did She Come Of Crow-flowers, Nettles, Daisies, And Long Purples That Liberal Shepherds Give A Grosser Name, But Our Cold Maids Do Dead Men's Fingers Call Them: There, On The Pendent Boughs Her Coronet Weeds Clambering To Hang, An Envious Sliver Broke; When Down Her Weedy Trophies And Herself Fell In The Weeping Brook.

This Rudeness Is A Sauce To His Good Wit, Which Gives Men Stomach To Digest His Words With Better Appetite.

When Truth Kills Truth, O Devilish Holy Fray!

Tremble, Thou Wretch, That Hast Within Thee Undivulged Crimes Unwhipped Of Justice.