I Am Sir Oracle, And When I

Gloucester, We Have Done Deeds Of Charity, Made Peace Of Enmity, Fair Love Of Hate, Between These Swelling Wrong-incensed Peers.

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

Grief Best Is Pleased With Grief's Society.

A Pox O’ Your Throat, You Bawling, Blasphemous, Incharitable Dog!