A Kind Of Excellent Dumb Discourse.

We Go To Gain A Little Patch Of Ground That Hath In It No Profit But The Name.

Maids Want Nothing But Husbands, And When They Have Them, They Want Everything.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.

Scorn, At First, Makes After-love The More.

Indeed, Sir, He That Sleeps Feels Not The Toothache; But A Man That Were To Sleep Your Sleep, And A Hangman To Help Him To Bed, I Think He Would Change Places With His Officer; For Look You, Sir, You Know Not Which Way You Shall Go.