I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.
O, full of scorpions is my mind!
Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet--nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather.