Fie, Fie, How Frantically I Square My

Time Is The Old Justice That Examines All Such Offenders, And Let Time Try.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

To England Will I Steal, And There I'll Steal.

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.