What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy

As Chaste As Unsunned Snow.

Preferred Three Hours Quicker Over One Moment Late.

I Am Indeed, Sir, A Surgeon To Old Shoes; When They Are In Great Danger I Recover Them.

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

Do Not Spread The Compost On The Weeds.