To Fear The Worst Oft Cures The

Love That Well Which Thou Must Leave Ere Long.

O Prosperina, For The Flowers Now That, Frighted, Thou Let'st Fall From Dis's Wagon; Daffodils, That Come Before The Swallow Dares, And Take The Winds Of March With Beauty; Violets Dim, But Sweeter Than The Lids Of Juno's Eyes Or Cytherea's Breath; Pale Primroses, That Die Unmarried, Ere They Can Behold Bright Phoebus In His Strength--a Malady Most Incident To Maids; Bold Oxlips And The Crown Imperial; Lilies Of All Kinds, The Flower-de-luce Being One.

But Kate, Dost Thou Understand Thus Much English? Canst Thou Love Me?" Catherine: "i Cannot Tell." Henry: "can Any Of Your Neighbours Tell, Kate? I'll Ask Them.

Ay, But To Die, And Go We Know Not Where.

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.