Good Fortune Then! To Make Me Blest

Every Why Has A Wherefore.

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

All Surfeit Is The Father Of Much Fast.

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

You Are Strangely Troublesome.