A Lion Among Ladies Is

Hot And Hasty, Like A Scotch Jig.

And What Art Thou, Thou Idol Ceremony? What Kind Of God Art Thou, That Suffer'st More Of Mortal Griefs Than Do Thy Worshippers?

Zounds! I Was Never So Bethumped With Words Since I First Called My Brother's Father Dad.

How Strange Or Odd Some'er I Bear Myself, As I Perchance Hereafter Shall Think Meet To Put An Antic Disposition On.

Give Me My Robe, Put On My Crown; I Have Immortal Longings In Me.