Heaven Truly Knows That Thou Art False

After Life's Fitful Fever He Sleeps Well. Treason Has Done His Worst. Nor Steel Nor Poison, Malice Domestic, Foreign Levy, Nothing Can Touch Him Further.

You Undergo Too Strict A Paradox, Striving To Make An Ugly Deed Look Fair.

Death-counterfeiting Sleep.

Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own

All Thy Vexations Were But My Trials Of Thy Love, And Thou Hast Strangely Stood The Test; Here, Afore Heaven, I Ratify This My Rich Gift.