Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

The Web Of Our Life Is Of A Mingled Yarn, Good And Ill Together.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

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.

Foul Deeds Will Rise, Though All The Earth O'erwhelm Them, To Men's Eyes.

And, If You Love Me, As I Think You Do, Let's Kiss And Part, For We Have Much To Do