Oh! It Offends Me To

Discharge My Followers; Let Them Hence Away, From Richard's Night To Bolingbrooke's Fair Day.

When Once Our Grace We Have Forgot, Nothing Goes Right.

Cowards Die Many Times Before Their Deaths; The Valiant Never Taste Of Death But Once. Of All The Wonders That I Yet Have Heard, It Seems To Me Most Strange That Men Should Fear; Seeing That Death, A Necessary End, Will Come When It Will Come.

So Will I Turn Her Virtue Into Pitch, And Out Of Her Own Goodness Make The Net That Shall Enmesh Them All.

Look Like The Innocent Flower, But Be The Serpent Under It.