Grief Makes One Hour Ten.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

Even So; An't Please Your Worship, Brakenbury, You May Partake Of Any Thing We Say: We Speak No Treason, Man; We Say The King Is Wise And Virtuous, And His Noble Queen Well Struck In Years, Fair, And Not Jealous; We Say That Shore's Wife Hath A Pretty Foot, A Cherry Lip, A Bonny Eye, A Passing Pleasing Tongue; And That The Queen's Kindred Are Made Gentlefolks.

They Do Not Love That Do Not Show Their Love.

We Waste Our Lights In Vain, Like Lamps By Day.

O For A Horse With Wings!