Let’s cheere our ſouldiers to incounter him, That grieuous image of ingratitude: That fiery thirſter after Soueraigntie: And burne him in the fury of that flame, That none can quench but blood and Empery.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse / On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;

Your hands shaped me and made me … Remember that you molded me like clay.

You walk into a bar, you know what you're getting into. Deal with it. Don't like it? Play weddings. It's the pussyification of the world, I tell ya...