Till Our King Henry Had Shook Hands

To Me, Fair Friend, You Never Can Be Old, For As You Were When First Your Eye I Eyed, Such Seems Your Beauty Still. Three Winters Cold Have From The Forests Shook Three Summers' Pride, Three Beauteous Springs To Yellow Autumn Turn'd In Process Of The Seasons Have I Seen, Three April Perfumes In Three Hot Junes Burn'd, Since First I Saw You Fresh, Which Yet Are Green.

Modest Wisdom Plucks Me From Over-credulous Haste.

Good Wine Is A Good Familiar Creature If It Be Well Used.

Fare Thee Well, King: Sith Thus Thou Wilt Appear, Freedom Lives Hence, And Banishment Is Here.

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.