I Dote On His Very Absence.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

I Have Not Slept. Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma, Or A Hideous Dream: The Genius And The Mortal Instruments Are Then In Council; And The State Of Man, Like To A Little Kingdom, Suffers Then The Nature Of An Insurrection.

Opinion Crowns With An Imperial Voice.

The Very Firstlings Of My Heart Shall Be The Firstlings Of My Hand.

Comfort's In Heaven, And We Are On The Earth