To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek

You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp.

Direct Not Him Whose Way Himself Will Choose; 'tis Breath Not Lack'st, And That Breath Wilt Thou Lose.

Thou Sodden-witted Lord! Thou Hast No More Brain Than I Have In Mine Elbows.

It Is The Bright Day That Brings Forth The Adder, And That Craves Wary Walking.

So Our Virtues Lie In The Interpretation Of The Time