I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

"Lawyers Are": Perilous mouths.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

O, call back yesterday, bid time return