You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

The Error Of Our Eye Directs Our Mind. What Error Leads Must Err.

O, The Blood More Stirs To Rouse A Lion Than To Start A Hare!

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

And Thus I Clothe My Naked Villainy With Odd Old Ends Stol'n Out Of Holy Writ; And Seem A Saint, When Most I Play The Devil.

Diseased Nature Oftentimes Breaks Forth In Strange Eruptions.