Now The Time Is Come, That France

O Momentary Grace Of Mortal Men, Which We More Hunt For Than The Grace Of God!

That You Were Once Unkind Befriends Me Now, And For That Sorrow, Which I Then Did Feel, Needs Must I Under My Transgression Bow, Unless My Nerves Were Brass Or Hammered Steel.

Et Tu Brute! (you Too, Brutus!)

Through Tattered Clothes, Small Vices Do Appear. Robes And Furred Gowns Hide All.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.