God, The Best Maker Of All Marriages,

Why, Then The World ’s Mine Oyster, Which I With Sword Will Open.

What Are You Doing Sister? / Killing Swine.

A Wretched Soul, Bruised With Adversity, We Bid Be Quiet When We Hear It Cry; But Were We Burdened With Light Weight Of Pain, As Much Or More We Should Ourselves Complain.

Spirits Are Not Finely Touched But To Fine Issues.

Why, I Can Smile And Murder Whiles I Smile, And Cry 'content' To That Which Grieves My Heart, And Wet My Cheeks With Artificial Tears, And Frame My Face For All Occasions