A cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in 't.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lillies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.

Let not the world see fear and sad distrust govern the motion of a kingly eye.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead than you shall hear the surly sullen bell give warning to the world that I am fled from this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it, for I love you so, that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, if thinking on me then should make you woe. O! if, I say, you look upon this verse when I perhaps compounded am with clay, do not so much as my poor name rehearse; but let your love even with my life decay; lest the wise world should look into your moan, and mock you with me after I am gone.