Foul Whisp'rings Are Abroad.

Nothing Comes From Doing Nothing.

I Have No Other But A Woman's Reason: I Think Him So, Because I Think Him So.

Thou Hast Her, France; Let Her Be Thine, For We Have No Such Daughter, Nor Shall Ever See That Face Of Hers Again. Therefore Be Gone Without Our Grace, Our Love, Our Benison.

At Christmas I No More Desire A Rose Than Wish A Snow In May's New-fangled Mirth; But Like Of Each Thing That In Season Grows.

How Poor Are They That Have Have Not Patients.