Like A Barber's Chair That Fits All

The Elephant Hath Joints, But None For Courtesy; His Legs Are Legs For Necessity, Not For Flexure.

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

In God's Name Cheerly On, Courageous Friends, To Reap The Harvest Of Perpetual Peace By This One Bloody Trial Of Sharp War.

What's The Newest Grief? Each Minute Tunes A New One.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.