Of All Base Passions, Fear Is The

Why, This Hath Not A Finger's Dignity.

At This Hour Lie At My Mercy All Mine Enemies.

Suspicion Always Haunts The Guilty Mind.

Thy Tongue Makes Welsh As Sweet As Ditties Highly Penn'd, Sung By A Fair Queen In A Summer's Bower, With Ravishing Division, To Her Lute.

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.