This Feather Stirs; She Lives! If It

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.

I Am Thy Father's Spirit; Doom'd For A Certain Term To Walk The Night And, For The Day, Confin'd To Fast In Fires, Till The Foul Crimes, Done In My Days Of Nature, Are Burnt And Purg'd Away.

I’ll Look To Like, If Looking Liking Move; But No More Deep Will I Endart Mine Eye Than Your Consent Gives Strength To Make It Fly.

Many A True Word Hath Been Spoken In Jest.

There Live Not Three Good Men Unhanged In England; And One Of Them Is Fat And Grows Old.