England Is Safe, If True Within Itself.

The Gates Of Monarchs Are Arched So High That Giants May Jet Through And Keep Their Impious Turbans On Without Good Morrow To The Sun.

O King, Believe Not This Hard-hearted Man!

Is There No Respect Of Place, Persons, Nor Time In You?

Away! Thou'rt Poison To My Blood.

Now The Melancholy God Protect Thee, And The Tailor Make Thy Garments Of Changeable Taffeta, For Thy Mind Is Opal.