For A Quart Of Ale Is A

Flout 'em, And Scout 'em; And Scout 'em, And Flout 'em; / Thought Is Free.

This Fell Sergeant, Death, Is Strict In His Arrest.

In God's Name Cheerly On, Courageous Friends, To Reap The Harvest Of Perpetual Peace By This One Bloody Trial Of Sharp War.

Thus Did I Keep My Person Fresh And New, My Presence, Like A Robe Pontifical, Ne'er Seen But Wondered At, And So My State, Seldom But Sumptuous, Showed Like A Feast.

A Sentence Is But A Cheveril Glove To A Good Wit; How Quickly The Wrong Side May Be Turned Outward!