Please maidenly vehemence,
Poison thee thus:
Alas, damn vulgar,
Herein naught peasant lordship dost melancholy jest
Though ne'er my goblet shalt oft come slandered
Who yonder forswear her bosom speak mercily
In lazy discontent.
Why yield him full at codpiece?
Or vow thy night she tempt?
Our lady could belch as a woman
Were love therefore drunker grace.
Death and torment,
When like thine friend,
Hath fair light:
They get much foul
Like loath some trifle wench of winter.
As we would say,
"Farewell."
Man makes questions
Of nay.