Sufferance Is The Badge Of All Our

Yet Mark'd I Where The Bolt Of Cupid Fell: It Fell Upon A Little Western Flower, Before Milk-white, Now Purple With Love's Wound, And Maidens Call It Love-in-idleness.

A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In Anger.

That England, That Was Wont To Conquer Others, Hath Made A Shameful Conquest Of Itself.

Were It Good To Set The Exact Wealth Of All Our States All At One Cast? To Set So Rich A Main On The Nice Hazard Of One Doubtful Hour? It Were Not Good.

O Shame, Where Is Thy Blush?