I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.

Pardon's the word to all.

Is this government of Britain's Isle, and this the royalty of Albion's King?

Live how we can, yet die we must.

Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.