Love Runs Away From Those Chasing Her,

What's The News? None, My Lord, But That The World's Grown Honest, Then Is Doomsday Near.

Foul Deeds Will Rise, Though All The Earth O'erwhelm Them, To Men's Eyes.

In That Small [time] Most Greatly Lived This Star Of England: Fortune Made His Sword, By Which The World's Best Garden He Achiev'd And Left It To His Son Imperial Lord. Henry The Sixth, In Infant Bands Crown'd King Of France And England Did This King Succeed; Whose State So Many Of Had The Managing, That They Lost France And Made His England Bleed.

O World, World! Thus Is The Poor Agent Despised. O Traitors And Bawds, How Earnestly Are You Set A-work, And How Ill Requited! Why Should Our Endeavor Be So Loved, And The Performance So Loathed?

Graze On My Lips; And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.