You Cannot Call It Love, For At

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.

Many Dream Not To Find, Neither Deserve, And Yet Are Steeped In Favors.

Oh! It Offends Me To The Soul To Hear A Robust Periwig-pated Fellow, Tear A Passion To Tatters, To Very Rags, To Split The Ears Of The Groundlings.

Farewell! Thou Art Too Dear For My Possessing.

Were It My Cue To Fight, I Should Have Known It Without A Prompter.