We are ready to try our fortunes to the last man.
I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
My chastity's the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors.