The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
The icy precepts of respect.
World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
More matter with less art.