There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.

Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever

I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.

Is she not passing fair?

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.

I see, sir, you are liberal in offers. You taught me first to beg, and now methinks You teach me how a beggar should be answered.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!