Pardon's The Word To All.

Muster Your Wits; Stand In Your Own Defence.

Tis In Ourselves That We Are Thus Or Thus. Our Bodies Are Our Gardens To The Which Our Wills Are Gardeners.

Here I And Sorrows Sit; Here Is My Throne, Bid Kings Come Bow To It.

A Good Old Man, Sir. He Will Be Talking. As They Say, When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out.

Some Men There Are Love Not A Gaping Pig, Some That Are Mad If They Behold A Cat, And Others When The Bagpipe Sings I The Nose Cannot Contain Their Urine.