He That Dies This Year Is Quit

The Weakest Kind Of Fruit Drops Earliest To The Ground.

I Swear Again, I Would Not Be A Queen For All The World.

The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Can Afford Is A Spotless Reputation.

Thou Art A Slave, Whom Fortune's Tender Arm With Favour Never Clasp'd; But Bred A Dog.

I Love A Ballad In Print O' Life, For Then We Are Sure They Are True.