Come, Lady, Die To Live.

A Virtuous And A Christianlike Conclusion-- To Pray For Them That Have Done Scathe To Us.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

Who Seeks, And Will Not Take, When Once 'tis Offer'd, Shall Never Find It More.

Their Manners Are More Gentle, Kind, Than Of Our Human Generation You Shall Find.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.