Silence Is The Perfect Herald Of Joy.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

I Would Not Lose So Great An Honor As One Man More Methinks Would Share With Me For The Best Hope I Have.

Being Holiday, The Beggar's Shop Is Shut.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

Ingrateful Man With Liquorish Draughts, And Morsels Unctuous, Greases His Pure Mind That From It All Consideration Slips.