She's Good, Being Gone.

Good Morrow, Fair Ones; Pray You, If You Know, Where In The Purlieus Of This Forest Stands A Sheep-cote Fenc'd About With Olive Trees?

A Little Fire Is Quickly Trodden Out, Which, Being Suffer'd, Rivers Cannot Quench.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.

A Sympathy In Choice.

Sir, In My Heart There Was A Kind Of Fighting That Would Not Let Me Sleep.