Conscience Is But A Word That Cowards

I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My Flesh Be Hacked.

Thou Ever Young, Fresh, Lov'd, And Delicate Wooer, Whose Blush Doth Thaw The Consecrated Snow

Heaven Would That She These Gifts Should Have, And I To Live And Die Her Slave.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

Let Not The World See Fear And Sad Distrust Govern The Motion Of A Kingly Eye.