Steady Of Heart And Stout

Revenge, The Sweetest Morsel To The Mouth That Ever Was Cooked In Hell.

Jock, When Ye Hae Naething Else To Do, Ye May Be Aye Sticking In A Tree; It Will Be Growing, Jock, When Ye 're Sleeping.

I Envy Thee Not Thy Faith, Which Is Ever In Thy Mouth But Never In Thy Heart Nor In Thy Practice

But Search The Land Of Living Men, Where Wilt Thou Find Their Like Again?

It Is A Great Disgrace To Religion, To Imagine That It Is An Enemy To Mirth And Cheerfulness, And A Severe Exacter Of Pensive Looks And Solemn Faces.