O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

By Heaven, My Soul Is Purg'd From Grudging Hate; And With My Hand I Seal My True Heart's Love

You Are A Lover. Borrow Cupid's Wings And Soar With Them Above A Common Bound.

Thy Wish Was Father, Harry, To That Thought.

For It Falls Out That What We Have We Prize Not To The Worth Whiles We Enjoy It, But Being Lacked And Lost, Why, Then We Rack The Value, Then We Find The Virtue That Possession Would Not Show Us While It Was Ours.

I Had Rather Be A Kitten, And Cry Mew, Than One Of These Same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I Had Rather Heare A Brazen Candlestick Turn'd, Or A Dry Wheele Grate On The Axle-tree, And That Would Set My Teeth Nothing An Edge, Nothing So Much, As Mincing Poetrie.