He Jests At Scars That

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.

Knit Your Hearts With An Unslipping Knot.

Plain And Not Honest Is Too Harsh A Style.

Me, Poor Man, My Library Was Dukedom Large Enough.

Of All The Fair Resort Of Gentlemen That Every Day With Parle Encounter Me, In Thy Opinion Which Is Worthiest Love?