There Is A World Elsewhere.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

For What I Will, I Will, And There An End.

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.

O' What May Man Within Him Hide, Though Angel On The Outward Side!