Few Things Loves Better Than To Abhor

A Wicked Conscience Mouldeth Goblins Swift As Frenzy Thoughts.

This Blessèd Plot, This Earth, This Realm, This England This Nurse, This Teeming Womb Of Royal Kings, . . . This Land Of Such Dear Souls, This Dear Dear Land.

I Had Rather Hear My Dog Bark At A Crow, Than A Man Swear He Loves Me.

I Cannot Speak Your England.

[s]ince Brevity Is The Soul Of Wit, And Tediousness The Limbs And Outward Flourishes, I Will Be Brief.