How Hard It Is To Hide The

Have You Not Love Enough To Bear With Me, When That Rash Humor Which My Mother Gave Me Makes Me Forgetful.

The Thing Of Courage As Rous'd With Rage Doth Sympathise, And, With An Accent Tun'd In Self-same Key, Retorts To Chiding Fortune.

God's Will! My Liege, Would You And I Alone, Without More Help, Could Fight This Royal Battle!

I Have Not Slept One Wink.

Scratching Could Not Make It Worse, An't Were Such A Face As Yours Were.