What, Can The Devil Speak True?

When That Churl Death My Bones With Dust Shall Cover.

Were Beauty Under Twenty Locks Kept Fast, Yet Love Breaks Through And Picks Them All At Last.

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.

Mine Honor Is My Life, Both Grow In One. Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done. Then, Dear My Liege, Mine Honor Let Me Try; In That I Live, And For That I Will Die.

A Good Man's Fortune May Grow Out At Heels.