They Say Miracles Are Past.

I Will Praise Any Man That Will Praise Me.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!

Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I Shall Weep Anon.

I Am Wealthy In My Friends.

My Love Is Thaw'd; Which, Like A Waxen Image 'gainst A Fire, Bears No Impression Of The Thing It Was