A Good Wit Will Make Use Of

Now The Time Is Come, That France Must Veil Her Lofty-plumed Crest, And Let Her Head Fall Into England's Lap.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

Here Comes A Man Of Comfort, Whose Advice Hath Often Stilled My Brawling Discontent.

I Thought My Heart Had Been Wounded With The Claws Of A Lion.

Free From Gross Passion Or Of Mirth Of Anger Constant Spirit, Not Swerving With The Blood, Garnish'd And Deck'd In Modest Compliment, Not Working With The Eye Without The Ear, And But In Purged Judgement Trusting Neither? Such And So Finely Bolted Didst Thou Seem.