Come, Lady, Die To Live.

Lord, Lord, How Subject We Old Men Are To This Vice Of Lying!

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

I Am Afeard There Are Few Die Well That Die In Battle, For How Can They Charitably Dispose Of Anything When Blood Is Their Argument?

Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led On By Heaven, And Crown'd With Joy At Last.

The Apparel Oft Proclaims The Man.