The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise
I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
A little water clears us of this deed.
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king?
O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.