To Be Direct And Honest Is Not

That England, That Was Wont To Conquer Others, Hath Made A Shameful Conquest Of Itself.

O! Let Me Not Be Mad, Not Mad, Sweet Heaven; Keep Me In Temper; I Would Not Be Mad!

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

O, Then, What Graces In My Love Do Dwell, That He Hath Turn'd A Heaven Unto Hell

What Soilders Whey-face? The English For So Please You. Take Thy Face Hence.