I'll Look To Like; If Looking, Liking

Sick In The World's Regard, Wretched And Low.

Better Be With The Dead, Whom We To Gain Our Peace, Have Sent To Peace, Than On The Torture Of The Mind To Lie In Restless Ecstasy.

She's Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her.

Lend Less Than You Owe.

Now The Time Is Come, That France Must Veil Her Lofty-plumed Crest, And Let Her Head Fall Into England's Lap.