Nothing Can Come Of Nothing.

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

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

Are You Sure/that We Are Awake? It Seems To Me/that Yet We Sleep, We Dream

A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling, Blasphemous, Incharitable Dog!

He Who Has Injured Thee Was Either Stronger Or Weaker Than Thee. If Weaker, Spare Him; If Stronger, Spare Thyself.