We Will Take The Good-will For The

I Drink No More Than A Sponge.

Thought I To Myself, We Shall Never Come Off Scot-free.

One Falls To The Ground In Trying To Sit On Two Stools.

Do Not Limp Before The Lame. [old Fr., Ne Clochez Pas Devant Les Boyteus.]

How Comes It That You Curse, Frere Jean? It's Only, Said The Monk, In Order To Embellish My Language. They Are The Colors Of Ciceronian Rhetoric.