There's Neither Honesty, Manhood, Nor Good Fellowship

To Climb Steep Hills Requires A Slow Pace At First.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?

Nature Her Custom Holds, Let Shame Say What It Will.

Knavery's Plain Face Is Never Seen Till Used.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.