in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.

Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?

I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

My stars shine darkly over me