I Can No Other Answer Make, But,

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

Love's Not Time's Fool, Though Rosy Lips And Cheeks Within His Bending Sickle's Compass Come; Love Alters Not With His Brief Hours And Weeks, But Bears It Out Even To The Edge Of Doom. If This Be Error And Upon Me Prov'd, I Never Writ, Nor No Man Ever Lov'd.

Foul Fiend Of France And Hag Of All Despite, Encompassed With Thy Lustful Paramours, Becomes It Thee To Taunt His Valiant Age And Twit With Cowardice A Man Half Dead?

Good Old Grandsire ... We Shall Be Joyful Of Thy Company.

Cowards Die Many Times Before Their Deaths; The Valiant Never Taste Of Death But Once. Of All The Wonders That I Yet Have Heard, It Seems To Me Most Strange That Men Should Fear; Seeing That Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come.