Our swords shall play the orators for us.

When all the world dissolves, / And every creature shall be purified, / All place shall be hell that is not heaven.

My men like satyrs grazing on the lawns, / Shall with their goat-feet dance an antic hay.

Above our life we love a steadfast friend.

Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.

Accurst be he that first invented war.