I Swear Again, I Would Not Be

Men That Make Envy And Crooked Malice Nourishment, Dare Bite The Best.

If All The Year Were Playing Holidays; To Sport Would Be As Tedious As To Work.

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?

Thou Art Sad; Get Thee A Wife, Get Thee A Wife!

The Summer's Flower Is To The Summer Sweet Though To Itself It Only Live And Die