Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None

His Steeds To Water At Those Springs On Chaliced Flowers That Lies; And Winking Mary-buds Begin To Ope Their Golden Eyes: With Every Thing That Pretty Is, My Lady Sweet, Arise.

England Is Safe, If True Within Itself.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told.

This Blessed Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England.