I Am One, Sir, That

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.

Come Away, Come Away, Death, And In Sad Cypress Let Me Be Laid; Fly Away, Fly Away, Breath, I Am Slain By A Fair Cruel Maid. My Shroud Of White Stuck All With Yew, O Prepare It! My Part Of Death No One So True Did Share It. Not A Flower, Not A Flower Sweet, On My Black Coffin Let There Be Strewn: Not A Friend, Not A Friend Greet My Poor Corpse, Where My Bones Shall Be Thrown. A Thousand Thousand Sighs To Save, Lay Me O Where Sad True Lover Never Find My Grave, To Weep There!

Policy Sits Above Conscience.

To Be Furious, Is To Be Frighted Out Of Fear.

O Judgment ! Thou Art Fled To Brutish Beasts, And Men Have Lost Their Reason !