The Breach Of Custom Is Breach Of

Death, As The Psalmist Saith, Is Certain To All, All Shall Die.

Truth Is Truth To The End Of Reckoning.

But No Perfection Is So Absolute, That Some Impurity Doth Not Pollute.

Not An Angel Of The Air, Bird Melodious Or Bird Fair, Be Absent Hence!

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.