There Was A Star Danced, And Under

He Is Not Worthy Of The Honey-comb, That Shuns The Hives Because The Bees Have Stings.

Until I Know This Sure Uncertainty, I'll Entertain The Offered Fallacy.

If We Are Mark'd To Die, We Are Enow To Do Our Country Loss; And If To Live, The Fewer Men, The Greater Share Of Honour. God's Will! I Pray Thee; Wish Not One Man More.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presages Of My Speaking Breast.

Out Of Her Favour, Where I Am In Love.