Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful

Most Subject Is The Fattest Soil To Weeds.

Beware The Ides Of March.

O How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes Favors! There Is Betwixt That Smile We Would Aspire To, That Sweet Aspect Of Princes, And Their Ruin, More Pangs And Fears Than Wars Or Women Have, And When He Falls, He Falls Like Lucifer, Never To Hope Again.

The World Is Grown So Bad, That Wrens Make Prey Where Eagles Dare Not Perch.

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine, Whose Weakness, Married To Thy Stronger State, Makes Me With Thy Strength To Communicate.