Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

So May He Rest, His Faults Lie Gently On Him!

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

No Reckoning Made, But Sent To My Account With All My Imperfections On My Head.

These Cardinals Trifle With Me; I Abhor; This Dilatory Sloth And Tricks Of Rome.

Why, All Delights Are Vain, But That Most Vain Which, With Pain Purchased, Doth Inherit Pain: As, Painfully To Pore Upon A Book, To Seek The Light Of Truth, Which Truth The While Doth Falsely Blind The Eyesight Of His Look.