'tis The Soldier's Life To Have Their

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

Ingrateful Man With Liquorish Draughts, And Morsels Unctuous, Greases His Pure Mind That From It All Consideration Slips.

He Is The Half Part Of A Blessed Man, Left To Be Finished By Such As She; And She A Fair Divided Excellence, Whose Fullness Of Perfection Lies In Him.

A Book? O, Rare One, Be Not, As Is Our Fangled World, A Garment Nobler Than That It Covers.

By Heaven, I'll Make A Ghost Of Him That Lets Me.