The World Is Not Thy Friend, Nor

Time Shall Unfold What Plaited Cunning Hides: Who Cover Faults, At Last Shame Them Derides.

Our Jovial Star Reigned At His Birth.

What Have We Here? A Man Or A Fish? Dead Or Alive? A Fish: He Smells Like A Fish; A Very Ancient And Fishlike Smell; A Kind Of Not Of The Newest Poor-john. A Strange Fish!

You Told A Lie, An Odious Damned Lie; Upon My Soul, A Lie, A Wicked Lie.

Shine Out Fair Sun, Till I Have Bought A Glass, That I May See My Shadow As I Pass.