You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp.

Truth Will Come To Sight; Murder Cannot Be Hid Long.

I Long To Hear The Story Of Your Life, Which Must Take The Ear Strangely.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

Think, When We Talk Of Horses, That You See Them Printing Their Proud Hoofs I' The Receiving Earth.

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.