But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined,

The Little Dogs And All, Tray, Blanch, And Sweetheart-see, They Bark At Me.

Lord Bacon Told Sir Edward Coke When He Was Boasting, The Less You Speak Of Your Greatness, The More Shall I Think Of It.

Let Me Be Boiled To Death With Melancholy.

Speak, What Trade Art Thou? Why, Sir, A Carpenter. Where Is Thy Leather Apron And Thy Rule? What Does Thou With Thy Best Apparel On?

Tis A Blushing Shame-faced Spirit That Mutinies In A Man's Bosom. It Fills A Man Full Of Obstacles. It Made Me Once Restore A Purse Of Gold That (by Chance) I Found. It Beggars Any Man That Keeps It.