Truth Hath A Quiet Breast.

You Are Not Worth The Dust Which The Rude Wind Blows In Your Face.

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

And Too Soon Marred Are Those So Early Made.

Discharge My Followers; Let Them Hence Away, From Richard's Night To Bolingbrooke's Fair Day.