Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

I may command where I adore.

Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.

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

The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.