O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

It Were A Grief So Brief To Part With Thee. Farewell.

Would It Not Grieve A Woman To Be Over-mastered By A Piece Of Valiant Dust? To Make An Account Of Her Life To A Clod Of Wayward Marle?

The Time Of Life Is Short; To Spend That Shortness Basely Were Too Long.

And Thus I Clothe My Naked Villainy With Odd Old Ends Stol'n Out Of Holy Writ; And Seem A Saint, When Most I Play The Devil.

If Thou Art Rich, Thou Art Poor; For, Like An Ass, Whose Back With Ingots Bows, Thou Bearest Thy Heavy Riches But A Journey, And Death Unloads Thee.