Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.

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.

You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown.

I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!