Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.
We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
My love is thaw'd; Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was