Fight To The Last Gasp.

The Lady Doth Protest Too Much, Methinks.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.

Then Love-devouring Death Do What He Dare.

I Love A Ballad But Even Too Well If It Be Doleful Matter Merrily Set Down, Or A Very Pleasant Thing Indeed And Sung Lamentably.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.