The King-becoming Graces, As Justice, Verity, Temp'rance,

As You Are Old And Reverend, You Should Be Wise.

Retire Me To My Milan, Where Every Third Thought Shall Be My Grave.

I Have Not Slept. Between The Acting Of A Dreadful Thing And The First Motion, All The Interim Is Like A Phantasma, Or A Hideous Dream: The Genius And The Mortal Instruments Are Then In Council; And The State Of Man, Like To A Little Kingdom, Suffers Then The Nature Of An Insurrection.

A Man Cannot Make Him Laugh - But That's No Marvel; He Drinks No Wine.

Grace Me No Grace, Nor Uncle Me No Uncle; I Am No Traitor's Uncle, And That Word "grace" In An Ungracious Mouth Is But Profane.