Dissembling Harlot, Thou Art False In All!

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

Uneasy Lies The Head That Wears A Crown.

O Wretched State! O Bosom Black As Death!

Patch Grief With Proverbs.