France Is A Dog-hole, And

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

Be As Thou Wast Wont To Be. See As Thou Wast Wont To See.

What Is Honour? A Word. What Is In That Word Honour? What Is That Honour? Air. A Trim Reckoning! Who Hath It? He That Died O' Wednesday. Doth He Feel It? No. Doth He Hear It? No.

Thou Sodden-witted Lord! Thou Hast No More Brain Than I Have In Mine Elbows.

Tired With All These, For Restful Death I Cry.