I Hate The Murderer, Love Him Murdered.

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

The Gloomy Shade Of Death.

Some Say That Ever 'gainst The Season Comes Wherein Our Saviour's Birth Is Celebrated, The Bird Of Dawning Singeth All Night Long: And Then, They Say, No Spirit Can Walk Abroad; The Nights Are Wholesome; Then No Planets Strike, No Fairy Takes, Nor Wi

I Have Heard Of Some Kind Of Men That Put Quarrels Purposely On Others, To Taste Their Valor.

We May Outrun By Violent Swiftness And Lose By Over-running.