Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

I Were Better To Be Eaten To Death With A Rust Than To Be Scoured To Nothing With Perpetual Motion.

How Much Better Is It To Weep At Joy Than To Joy At Weeping?

So Long As Men Can Breathe, Or Eyes Can See, So Long Lives This, And This Gives Life To Thee.

There's Many A Man Hath More Hair Than Wit.