Let The Sap Of Reason Quench The

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.

All Men's Faces Are True, Whatsome'er Their Hands Are.

There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

By Being Seldom Seen, I Could Not Stir But Like A Comet I Was Wondered At.

The Better Part Of Valor Is Discretion, In The Which Better Part I Have Saved My Life.