Fill All Thy Bones With Aches.

So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That Feeds On Men.

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.

This Blessed Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England.

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

O! Let Me Not Be Mad, Not Mad, Sweet Heaven; Keep Me In Temper; I Would Not Be Mad!