Think'st Thou It Honourable For

The Crow Doth Sing As Sweetly As The Lark When Neither Is Attended; And I Think The Nightingale, If She Should Sing By Day When Every Goose Is Cackling, Would Be Thought No Better A Musician Than The Wren. How Many Thing By Season Seasoned Are To Their Right Praise And True Perfection!

My Rage Is Gone, And I Am Struck With Sorrow. Take Him Up. Help, Three O' Th' Chiefest Soldiers; I'll Be One. Beat Thou The Drum, That It Speaks Mournfully, Trail Your Steel Spikes. Though In This City He Hath Widowed And Unchilded Many A One, Which To This Hour Bewail The Injury, Yet He Shall Have A Noble Memory. Assist.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.

They That Touch Pitch Will Be Defiled.

Let Them Obey That Knows Not How To Rule.