The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

O, How Wretched Is That Poor Man That Hangs On Princes' Favors.

This Music Crept By Me Upon The Waters, Allaying Both Their Fury And My Passion With Its Sweet Air: Thence I Have Follow’d It.

My Hands Are Of Your Color, But I Shame To Wear A Heart So White.

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.