I'll Forbear; And Am Fallen Out With

Avaunt, You Cullions!

It Was Always Yet The Trick Of Our English Nation, If They Have A Good Thing, To Make It Too Common.

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

They Met So Near With Their Lips That Their Breaths Embraced Together.

They Are But Beggars That Can Count Their Worth.