Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.
Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come