Wilt Thou Whip Thine Own

What A Pretty Thing Man Is When He Goes In His Doublet And Hose And Leaves Off His Wit!

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Rude Am I In My Speech, And Little Blessed With The Soft Phrase Of Peace.

The Coward Dies A Thousand Deaths, The Valiant, Only Once!

Nice Customs Curtsy To Great Kings.