At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
O Lord that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with thankfulness!
Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.