Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.

Do you set down your name in the scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age?

Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.

Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness.