O God! that one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into the sea! and, other times, to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for Neptune's hips; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With divers liquors!

“Not dem kinda deers, dese de kine wit′ antling.” She say, “I′m goin′ witcha.” He say, “I'll be damned, iss not′ing but a dirty ol′ men's camp an′ you can′t go.” Well, she bawled an′ squalled and raise some sand, but he went to hont dem deers.

Of all theſe bounds euen from this Line, to this, / With ſhadowie Forreſts, and with Champains rich’d / With plenteous Riuers, and wide-ſkirted Meades / We make thee Lady.

A fool hath no delight in understanding.