There's Place And Means For Every Man

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Tis The Times' Plague, When Madmen Lead The Blind.

[thine] Face Is Not Worth Sunburning.

O God Of Battles! Steel My Soldiers’ Hearts. Possess Them Not With Fear.

I Am Declined Into The Vale Of Years.