You Are Not Worth The Dust Which

Muster Your Wits; Stand In Your Own Defence.

I Love A Ballad But Even Too Well If It Be Doleful Matter Merrily Set Down, Or A Very Pleasant Thing Indeed And Sung Lamentably.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

Piece Out Our Imperfections With Your Thoughts.

This Rudeness Is A Sauce To His Good Wit, Which Gives Men Stomach To Digest His Words With Better Appetite.