Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.

Travelers must be content.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me

Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.

Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday