Twas A Clever Quibble. Here, A Garment

That Which Hath Made Them Drunk Hath Made Me Bold; What Hath Quenched Them Hath Given Me Fire.

But Most It Is Presumption In Us When The Help Of Heaven We Count The Act Of Men.

I Thank You All And Here Dismiss You All, And To The Love And Favor Of My Country Commit Myself, My Person, And The Cause.

Thou Detestable Maw, Thou Womb Of Death.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.