Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!

A very scurvy fellow.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

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.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.

And ruin`d love when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater