I Am Too Old To Fawn Upon

The Love Of Wicked Men Converts To Fear; That Fear To Hate, And Hate Turns One Or Both To Worthy Danger And Deserved Death.

It Is That Fery Person For All The Orld, As Just As You Will Desire; And Seven Hundred Pounds Of Moneys, And Gold, And Silver, Is Her Grandsire Upon His Death's-bed-got Deliver To A Joyful Resurrections!

The Even Mead, That Erst Brought Sweetly Forth The Freckled Cowslip, Burnet, And Green Clover, Wanting The Scythe, All Uncorrected, Rank, Conceives By Idleness, And Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burrs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

Those That Are Good Manners At The Court Are As Ridiculous In The Country, As The Behavior Of The Country Is Most Mockable At The Court.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.