He That Dies This Year Is Quit

Good Words Are Better Than Bad Strokes.

I Do Beseech You- Though I Perchance Am Vicious In My Guess , That Your Wisdom Yet From One That So Imperfectly Conjects Would Take No Notice, Nor Build Yourself A Trouble Out Of His Scattering And Unsure Observance.

So Will I Turn Her Virtue Into Pitch, And Out Of Her Own Goodness Make The Net That Shall Enmesh Them All.

Loathsome Canker Lives In Sweetest Bud.

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.