To Loathe The Taste Of Sweetness, Whereof

Upon His Royal Face There Is No Note How Dread An Army Hath Enrounded Him.

The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention Like Deep Harmony.

Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

How Far That Little Candle Throws Its Beams! So Shines A Good Deed In A Naughty World.

Truly The Souls Of Men Are Full Of Dread: Ye Cannot Reason Almost With A Man That Looks Not Heavily And Full Of Fear.