Covering Discretion With A Coat Of Folly.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

Who Are The Violets Now That Strew The Lap Of The New-come Spring?

A Hit, A Very Palpable Hit.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.