Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

How Much An Ill Word May Empoison Liking!

Were It My Cue To Fight, I Should Have Known It Without A Prompter.

Now The Time Is Come, That France Must Veil Her Lofty-plumed Crest, And Let Her Head Fall Into England's Lap.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.