I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.

Cease thy counsel, for thy words fall into my ears as priceless as water into a seive.

In springtime, the only pretty ring time Birds sing, hey ding A-ding, a-ding Sweet lovers love the spring—

Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.

How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.