The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left

Shall We Upon The Footing Of Our Land Send Fair-play Orders, And Make Compromise, Insinuation, Parley, And Base Truce, To Arms Invasive?

Prophet May You Be! If I Be False, Or Swerve A Hair From Truth, When Time Is Old And Hath Forgot Itself, When Waterdrops Have Worn The Stones Of Troy, And Blind Oblivion Swallowed Cities Up, And Mighty States Characterless Are Grated To Dusty Nothing, Yet Let Memory, From False To False, Among False Maids In Love, Upbraid My Falsehood!

'tis Better To Bear The Ills We Have Than Fly To Others That We Know Not Of.

The Seeming Truth Which Cunning Times Put On To Entrap The Wisest.

Will Fortune Never Come With Both Hands Full, But Write Her Fair Words Still In Foulest Terms?