With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og, For every inch that is not fool is rogue:;: A monstrous mass of fuul corrupted matter, As all the devils had spew'd to make the baiter. When wine has given him courage to blaspheme, He curses God, but God before curst him:;; And, if man could have reason, none has more. That made his paunch so rich, and him so poor.
Why, as I told thee, 'tis a custom with him I' the afternoon to sleep; there thou mayst brain him, Having first seiz'd his books; or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember, First to possess his books; for without them He's but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him, As rootedly as I burn but his books.