Thanks, Sir; All The Rest Is Mute.

Read O'er This And After, This, And Then To Breakfast With What Appetite You Have.

Liberty Plucks Justice By The Nose; The Baby Beats The Nurse, And Quite Athwart Goes All Decorum.

I Could A Tale Unfold Whose Lightest Word Would Harrow Up Thy Soul, Freeze Thy Young Blood, Make Thy Two Eyes Like Stars Start From Their Spheres, Thy Knotted And Combined Locks To Part, And Each Particular Hair To Stand On End Like Quills Upon The Fretful Porpentine. But This Eternal Blazon Must Not Be To Ears Of Flesh And Blood. List, List, O List!

Things At The Worst Will Cease Or Else Climb Upward To What They Were Before.

You Must Not Think That We Are Made Of Stuff So Fat And Dull That We Can Let Our Beard Be Shook With Danger And Think It Pastime.