�������t¶��

O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

Let France disdain to sully thee, With the curst kidnapper's knavery!

“Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide.”

Good friend, for Jesus’ sake forbear, To dig the dust enclosed here; Blest be the man that spares these stones, And curst be he that moves my bones.

That is the curst Misfortune of our Traders; A thousand Fools attempt to live this Way, Who might as well turn Ministers of State.