When The Age Is In, The Wit

The Big Round Tears Cours'd One Another Down His Innocent Nose, In Piteous Chase.

A Golden Mind Stoops Not To Shows Of Dross.

I Have Been Long A Sleeper; But I Trust My Absence Doth Neglect No Great Design Which By My Presence Might Have Been Concluded.

Thus Hath The Candle Sing'd The Moth. O These Deliberate Fools!

Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray You, Undo This Button.