Where Mercy, Love, And Pity Dwell, There

My Silks And Fine Array, My Smiles And Languished Air, By Love Are Driv'n Away And Mournful Lean Despair Brings Me Yew To Deck My Grave: Such End True Lovers Have.

Every Man Who Is Not An Artist Is A Traitor To His Own Nature.

A Good Local Pub Has Much In Common With A Church, Except That A Pub Is Warmer, And There's More Conversation.

But If At Church They Would Give Some Ale. And A Pleasant Fire Our Souls To Regale. We'd Sing And We'd Pray All The Live Long Day, Nor Ever Once From The Church To Stray.

And Is He Honest Who Resists His Genius Or Conscience Only For The Sake Of Present Ease Or Gratification