In Thy Foul Throat Thou Liest.

Rest You Fair, Good Signior; Your Worship Was The Last Man In Our Mouths.

The Violence Of Either Grief Or Joy, Their Own Enactures With Themselves Destroy.

You Are A Lover. Borrow Cupid's Wings And Soar With Them Above A Common Bound.

For Conspiracy, I Know Not How It Tastes, Though It Be Dished For Me To Try How.

From Camp To Camp, Through The Foul Womb Of Night, The Hum Of Either Army Stilly Sounds, That The Fixed Sentinels Almost Receive The Secret Whispers Of Each Other's Watch. Fire Answers Fire, And Through Their Play Flames Each Battle Sees The Other's Umbered Face. Steed Threatens Steed, In High And Boastful Neighs Piercing The Night's Dull Ear; And From The Tents The Armorers Accomplishing The Knights, With Busy Hammers Closing Rivets Up, Give Dreadful Note Of Preparation.