Fuss Is The Froth Of Business.

The Cowslip Is A Country Wench.

Oh Would I Were Dead Now, Or Up In My Bed Now, To Cover My Head Now, And Have A Good Cry!

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

The Quaker Loves An Ample Brim, A Hat That Bows To No Salaam; And Dear The Beaver Is To Him As If It Never Made A Dam.

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.