Woe to that land that's governed by a child.

My love is deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.

Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.

And simple truth miscalled simplicity

But men are men; the best sometimes forget.

So fair and foul a day i had not seen.