Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment

O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic, Let It Be An Art Lawful As Eating.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

I Can Get No Remedy Against This Consumption Of The Purse: Borrowing Only Lingers And Lingers It Out, But The Disease Is Incurable.

A Jest's Prosperity Lies In The Ear

Put On The Dauntless Spirit Of Resolution.