Till Our King Henry Had Shook Hands

We, Ignorant Of Ourselves, Beg Often Our Own Harms, Which The Wise Powers Deny Us For Our Good; So Find We Profit By Losing Of Our Prayers.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

Security Is The Chief Enemy Of Mortals.

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.

O My Good Lord, That Comfort Comes Too Late, 'tis Like A Pardon After Execution. That Gentle Physic, Given In Time, Had Cured Me; But Now I Am Past All Comforts Here But Prayers.