The House Is A Fine House, When

The Singing Man Keepes His Shop In His Throate.

Hee That Is Throwne Would Ever Wrestle.

Only A Sweet And Virtuous Soul, Like Season'd Timbered, Never Gives; But Though The Whole World Turn To Coal, Then Chiefly Lives.

Shew Me A Lyer, And I'le Shew Thee A Theefe.

The Chicken Is The Country's, But The City Eats It.