The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border.
In durance vile 1here must I wake and weep, And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep.
Dare to be honest and fear no labor. ... Opera is where a man gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, Nor am I even the thing I could be.
All my fears and cares are of this world; if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it.