Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.
I will be correspondent to command, And do my spiriting gently.
Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.