“Nine,” said I. “When are a fool and his money parted?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Soon,” said I. “What do too many cooks spoil?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “The broth,” said I. “What’s an idle brain?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “The devil’s workshop,” said I. “What may a cat look at?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “A king,” said I. “What’s truth stranger than?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Fiction,” said I. “What’s there many a slip betwixt?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “The cup and the lip,” said I. “How do birds of a feather flock?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Together,” said I. “What do fools do where angels fear to tread?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Rush in,” said I. “What does many a mickle make?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “A muckle,” said I. “What will the pounds do if you take care of the pence?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Take care of themselves,” said I. “What do curses do, like chickens?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Come home to roost,” said I. “What is it that has no turning?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “A long lane,” said I. “What does an ill wind blow?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Nobody good,” said I. “What’s a merciful man merciful to?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “His beast,” said I. “What’s better to do than to break?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Bend,” said I. “What’s an ounce of prevention worth?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “A pound of cure,” said I. “What’s there nothing half so sweet in life as?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Love’s young dream,” said I. “What does absence make?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “The heart grow fonder,” said I. “How would a rose by any other name smell?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “As sweet,” said I. “How did the Assyrian come down?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Like a wolf on the fold,” said I. “What were his cohorts gleaming with?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Purple and gold,” said I. “What was the sheen of their spears like?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “Stars on the sea,” said I. “When?” said my friend Annabel Lee. “When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee,” said I. “All of which proves,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “that I’ve but to fiddle and you will dance, you poor, miserable, little rat. And my thought is, what is it better to be than second in Rome?” “First in a little Iberian village,” said I.