I dye: Come, let me kisse thy little tender lips, Cold death hath tane possession of thy mother; Let me imbrace thee in my dying armes, And pray the Lord protect thee from al harmes.

To take away the Wench oth' sudden from him, And give him no lawful warning, he is tender; And of a young girles constitution, Sir, Readie to get the greene sickness with conceit; Had he but tane his leave innavailing language, Or bought an Elegie of his condolement, That th' world might have tane notice, he had beene An Asse, 't had beene some favour.

I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.