Pardon's The Word To All.

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die

Have You Not A Moist Eye, A Dry Hand, A Yellow Cheek, A White Beard, A Decreasing Leg, An Increasing Belly? Is Not Your Voice Broken, Your Wind Short, Your Chin Double, Your Wit Single, And Every Part About You Blasted With Antiquity?

The Time Of Universal Peace Is Near. Prove This A Prosp'rous Day, The Three-nooked World Shall Bear The Olive Freely.

Every Man Has A Bag Hanging Before Him, In Which He Puts His Neighbour's Faults, And Another Behind Him In Which He Stows His Own.

How Many Things By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!