Good Luck Lies In Odd

His Jest Will Savour But Of Shallow Wit, When Thousands Weep, More Than Did Laugh At It.

We Must Follow, Not Force Providence.

Old Fashions Please Me Best; I Am Not So Nice To Change True Rules For Odd Inventions.

I Go, I Go, Look How I Go, Swifter Than An Arrow From A Bow

I Have Ventured, Like Little Wanton Boys That Swim On Bladders, This Many Summers In A Sea Of Glory, But Far Beyond My Depth. My High-blown Pride At Length Broke Under Me, And Now Has Left Me, Weary And Old With Service, To The Mercy Of A Rude Stream That Must For Ever Hide Me.