Nothing 'gainst Times Scythe Can Make Defence.

Affection Faints Not Like A Pale-faced Coward, But Then Woos Best When Most His Choice Is Froward.

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

In Delay There Lies No Plenty.

O, Speak Again, Bright Angel! For Thou Art As Glorious To This Night, Being O'er My Head As Is A Winged Messenger Of Heaven

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.