Words Are Grown So False, I Am

If Her Breath Were As Terrible As Her Terminations, There Were No Living Near Her, She Would Infect To The North Star!

I Go, I Go, Look How I Go, Swifter Than An Arrow From A Bow

In A False Quarrel There Is No True Valor.

I'll Give My Jewels For A Set Of Beads, My Gorgeous Palace For A Hermitage, My Gay Apparel For An Almsman's Gown, My Figured Goblets For A Dish Of Wood, My Scepter For A Palmer's Walking Staff My Subjects For A Pair Of Carved Saints And My Large Kingdom For A Little Grave.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.