I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.
Would I were in an alehouse in London.
He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
I had as lief have been myself alone.