I Am A Foe To Tyrants, And

Merrily, Merrily Shall I Live Now, Under The Blossom That Hangs On The Bough.

Poor And Content, Is Rich And Rich Enough; But Riches, Fineless, Is As Poor As Winter, To Him That Ever Fears He Shall Be Poor.

Till Our King Henry Had Shook Hands With Death.

The Gods Are Deaf To Hot And Peevish Vows. They Are Polluted Off'rings, More Abhorred! Than Spotted Livers In The Sacrifice.

A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.