Patch Up Thine Old Body

Thrust Your Head Into The Public Street, To Gaze On Christian Fools With Varnish'd Faces.

A Heaven On Earth I Have Won By Wooing Thee.

What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless Death.

My Master Hath Been An Honorable Gentleman; Tricks He Hath Had In Him Which Gentlemen Have.

Nay, Do Not Think I Flatter. For What Advancement May I Hope From Thee, That No Revenue Hast But Thy Good Spirits To Feed And Clothe Thee? Why Should The Poor Be Flattered?