These Flowers Are Like The Pleasures Of

Zounds! I Was Never So Bethumped With Words Since I First Called My Brother's Father Dad.

The Latter End Of A Fray, And The Beginning Of A Feast, Fits A Dull Fighter, And A Keen Guest.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

Words Are Grown So False, I Am Loath To Prove Reason With Them.