For You And I Are Past Our

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

Dispute Not With Her: She Is Lunatic.

We Make Guilty Of Our Disasters The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars; As If We Were Villians By Compulsion.

Fight, Gentlemen Of England! Fight, Bold Yeomen! Draw, Archers, Draw Your Arrows To The Head! Spur Your Proud Horses Hard, And Ride In Blood; Amaze The Welkin With Your Broken Staves!