I Can See His Pride Peep Through

Her Passions Are Made Of Nothing But The Finest Part Of Pure Love

For We, Which Now Behold These Present Days, Have Eyes To Wonder, But Lack Tongues To Praise.

He Lives In Fame That Died In Virtue's Cause.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.

O Ceremony, Show Me But Thy Worth? What Is Thy Soul Of Adoration? Art Thou Aught Else But Place, Degree, And Form, Creating Awe And Fear In Other Men?