Sufferance Is The Badge Of All Our

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

Your Wisdom Is Consum'd In Confidence. Do Not Go Forth To-day.

Mine Eyes Smell Onions: I Shall Weep Anon.

An Earnest Conjuration From The King, As England Was His Faithful Tributary, As Love Between Them Like The Palm Might Flourish, As Peace Should Still Her Wheaten Garland Wear And Stand A Comma 'tween Their Amities, And Many Such-like As's Of Great Charge, That, On The View And Knowing Of These Contents, Without Debatement Further, More Or Less, He Should The Bearers Put To Sudden Death, Not Shriving Time Allow'd.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.