Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

An Envious Fever Of Pale And Bloodless Emulation.

At Christmas, I No More Desire A Rose.

When Love Begins To Sicken And Decay It Uses An Enforced Ceremony.

Abate The Edge Of Traitors, Gracious Lord, That Would Reduce These Bloody Days Again And Make Poor England Weep In Streams Of Blood! Let Them Not Live To Taste This Land's Increase That Would With Treason Wound This Fair Land's Peace! Now Civil Wounds Are Stopped, Peace Lives Again: That She May Long Live Here, God Say Amen!

For There's No Motion That Tends To Vice In Man, But I Affirm It Is The Woman's Part.