Well Had The Boding Tremblers Learned To

Ask Me No Questions, And I'll Tell You No Lies.

The First Blow Is Half The Battle.

Thou Source Of All My Bliss And All My Woe, That Found'st Me Poor At First, And Keep'st Me So.

What If In Scotland's Wilds We Viel'd Our Head, Where Tempests Whistle Round The Sordid Bed; Where The Rug's Two-fold Use We Might Display, By Night A Blanket, And A Plaid By Day.

One Man Is Born With A Silver Spoon In His Mouth, And The Other With A Wooden Ladle.