Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run

A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.

One Sin, I Know, Another Doth Provoke. Murder's As Near To Lust As Flame To Smoke.

Now The Time Is Come, That France Must Veil Her Lofty-plumed Crest, And Let Her Head Fall Into England's Lap.

I Do Not Hate A Proud Man, As I Do Hate The Engendering Of Toads.

But Thought's The Slave Of Life, And Life Time's Fool.