But Shall We Wear These Glories For

But I Am Constant As The Northern Star, Of Whose True Fixed And Resting Quality There Is No Fellow In The Firmament.

'tis Best To Weigh The Enemy More Mighty Than He Seems.

A Good Old Man, Sir. He Will Be Talking. As They Say, When The Age Is In, The Wit Is Out.

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*

Ay Me! For Aught That Ever I Could Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth.