A Woman Would Run Through Fire And

Just Death, Kind Umpire Of Men's Miseries.

Most Friendship Is Faining, Most Loving Mere Folly: Then, Heigh-ho, The Holly. This Life Is Most Jolly.

Thy Friendship Makes Us Fresh.

Give Sorrow Words; The Grief That Does Not Speak Knits Up The O-er Wrought Heart And Bids It Break.

Could Beauty, My Lord, Have Better Commerce Than With Honesty?