Tremble, Thou Wretch, That Hast Within Thee

O, She's Warm! If This Be Magic, Let It Be An Art Lawful As Eating.

Would I Were Dead, If God's Good Will Were So, For What Is In This World But Grief And Woe?

Appetite, A Universal Wolf.

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.

If I Be Waspish, Best Beware My Sting.