Virtuous And Fair, Royal And Gracious.

For Many Men That Stumble At The Threshold Are Well Foretold That Danger Lurks Within.

The Eagle Suffers Little Birds To Sing.

Say She Rail; Why, I'll Tell Her Plain She Sings As Sweetly As A Nightingale. Say That She Frown; I'll Say She Looks As Clear As Morning Roses Newly Wash'd With Dew. Say She Be Mute And Will Not Speak A Word; Then I'll Commend Her Volubility, And Say She Uttereth Piercing Eloquence.

You Peasant Swain! You Whoreson Malt-horse Drudge!

For This Relief Much Thanks. 'tis Bitter Cold, And I Am Sick At Heart.