But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And

While Thou Livest Keep A Good Tongue In Thy Head.

I'll Fight, Till From My Bones My Flesh Be Hacked.

Though She Be But Little, She Is Fierce!

What's More To Do, Which Would Be Planted Newly With The Time, As Calling Home Our Exiled Friends Abroad That Fled The Snares Of Watchful Tyranny, Producing Forth The Cruel Ministers Of This Dead Butcher And His Fiend-like Queen, Who, As 'tis Thought, By Self And Violent Hands Took Off Her Life; This, And What Needful Else That Calls Upon Us, By The Grace Of Grace We Will Perform In Measure, Time, And Place.

Be Merry; You Have Cause, So Have We All, Of Joy; For Our Escape Is Much Beyond Our Loss . . . . Then Wisely Weigh Our Sorrow With Our Comfort.