Thou Art The Best O' The Cut-throats

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

Some Report A Sea-maid Spawn'd Him; Some That He Was Begot Between Two Stock-fishes. But It Is Certain That When He Makes Water His Urine Is Congealed Ice.

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.

Women's Weapons, Water-drops.

O Thou That Dost Inhabit In My Breast, Leave Not The Mansion So Long Tenantless; Lest, Growing Ruinous, The Building Fall And Leave No Memory Of What It Was!