A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As

The Time Is Out Of Joint : O Cursed Spite, That Ever I Was Born To Set It Right!

Men's Evil Manners Live In Brass; Their Virtues We Write In Water.

Sweet Flowers Are Slow And Weeds Make Haste.

What's His Offense? Groping For Trout In A Peculiar River.

Thy Husband Is Thy Lord, Thy Life, Thy Keeper, Thy Head, Thy Sovereign; One That Cares For Thee, And For Thy Maintenance Commits His Body To Painful Labour Both By Sea And Land, To Watch The Night In Storms, The Day In Cold, Whilst Thou Liest Warm At Home, Secure And Safe; And Craves No Other Tribute At Thy Hands But Love, Fair Looks And True Obedience; Too Little Payment For So Great A Debt.