A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In

She Speaks Poniards, And Every Word Stabs.

Love Laughs At Locksmiths.

The Peace Of Heaven Is Theirs That Lift Their Swords, In Such A Just And Charitable War.

Teach Me, Dear Creature, How To Think And Speak; Lay Open To My Earthy-gross Conceit, Smother'd In Errors, Feeble, Shallow, Weak, The Folded Meaning Of Your Words' Deceit.

Now, My Co-mates And Brothers In Exile, Hath Not Old Custom Made This Life More Sweet Than That Of Painted Pomp? Are Not These Woods More Free From Peril Than The Envious Court?