Heaven Take My Soul, And England Keep

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

This Fellow Pecks Up Wit, As Pigeons Peas; And Utters It Again When God Doth Please: He Is Wit's Pedler; And Retails His Wares.

Sound Trumpets! Let Our Bloody Colours Wave! And Either Victory, Or Else A Grave.

Mercy Is Not Itself, That Oft Looks So; Pardon Is Still The Nurse Of Second Woe.

I Am A Feather For Each Wind That Blows