In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

Headstrong Liberty Is Lashed With Woe.

And Therefore Is Love Said To Be A Child, Because In Choice He Is So Oft Beguil'd

Home-keeping Youth Have Ever Homely Wits.

I Am The Prince Of Wales; And Think Not, Percy, To Share With Me In Glory Any More: Two Stars Keep Not Their Motion In One Sphere.

Gives Not The Hawthorn Bush A Sweeter Shade To Shepherds, Looking On Their Silly Sheep, Than Doth A Rich Embroider'd Canopy To Kings That Fear Their Subjects Treachery?