The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

When in your motion you are hot and dry, / As make your bouts more violent to that end, / And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him / A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, / If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, / Our purpose may hold there.

the great love the general gender bear him, / Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, / Would like the spring that turneth wood to stone, / Convert his gyves to graces;

I bought an unction of a mountebank / So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, / Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, / Collected from all simples that have virtue / Under the moon, can save the thing from death / This is but scratch’d withal.

Is she to be buried in Christian burial, when she wilfully seeks her own salvation?

Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d / As we have warranties. Her death was doubtful; / And but that great command o’ersways the order, / She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d / Till the last trumpet.

If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o' Christian burial.

Why, e'en so: and now my Lady Worm's; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton's spade.

And the more pity that great folk should have countenance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even Christian.

the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—