I Will Make A Star-chamber Matter Of

Love Yourself; And In That Love Not Unconsidered Leave Your Honor.

Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry.

I Cannot Speak Your England.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

A Good Man's Fortune May Grow Out At Heels.