Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

Tired With All These For Restful Death I Cry, As To Behold Desert A Beggar Born, And Needy Nothing Trimmed In Jollity, And Purest Faith Unhappily Forsworn.

An Angel; Or, If Not, An Earthly Paragon.

A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.

A Fool, A Fool! I Met A Fool I' Th' Forest, A Motley Fool! A Miserable World! As I Do Live By Food, I Met A Fool Who Laid Him Down And Basked Him In The Sun And Railed On Lady Fortune In Good Terms, In Good Set Terms, And Yet A Motley Fool.

Against Ill Chances Men Are Ever Merry, But Heaviness Foreruns The Good Event.