Good Morning To You, Fair And Gracious

The Force Of His Own Merit Makes His Way-a Gift That Heaven Gives For Him.

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!

Fondling,' She Saith, 'since I Have Hemm'd Thee Here Within The Circuit Of This Ivory Pale, I'll Be A Park, And Thou Shalt Be My Deer; Feed Where Thou Wilt, On Mountain Or In Dale: Graze On My Lips, And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.

See What A Ready Tongue Suspicion Hath!