If Is A Custom, More Honor'd In

I Must To The Barber's, Monsieur, For Methinks I Am Marvellous Hairy About The Face.

Let Me Not Live, After My Flame Lacks Oil, To Be The Snuff Of Younger Spirits.

I Will Go Wash; And When My Face Is Fair, You Shall Perceive Whether I Blush Or No.

When Law Can Do No Right, Let It Be Lawful That Law Bar No Wrong.

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.