Nothing Violent, Oft Have I Heard Tell,

Our Swords Shall Play The Orators For Us.

He That Loves Pleasure Must For Pleasure Fall.

Cut Is The Branch That Might Have Grown Full Straight, And Burned Is Apollo's Laurel Bough, That Sometime Grew Within This Learned Man. Faustus Is Gone.

Above Our Life We Love A Steadfast Friend.

My Men Like Satyrs Grazing On The Lawns, / Shall With Their Goat-feet Dance An Antic Hay.