Foul Cankering Rust The Hidden

Seek Happy Nights To Happy Days.w

Why, Look You, I Am Whipp'd And Scourg'd With Rods, Nettled And Stung With Pismires[nettles], When I Hear Of This Vile Politician, Bolingbroke.

Nothing Emboldens Sin So Much As Mercy.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

What Can Be Happier Than For A Man, Conscious Of Virtuous Acts, And Content With Liberty, To Despise All Human Affairs?