Why, tys a bodye made by symetree And knytt together with more arte & care Then mathematycks cyrckles.

Cossan, your blame, And tys a dylligence of too muche pryde That interrupts myne admyratyon.

why tys the greatest favor In a kyngs guyfte, and had hys hyghnes pleasd T'have sent me to deathe we had bothe beene easd.

O tys a foule and damned sorcerye And maks the best of wisdome and of men, Of fame and fortytude, more loosse then ayre, Foolishe as idyotts, basse as cowardysse.

Us thynke a happynes, was a greate burthen, But nowe tys all the heaven

No more, no more, tys daungerous jestinge with edge toole[s], muche more with prynces.

And suer it errd in't: tys no gordyon knott That tyes suche a disparytie together.

And tys thy last foule languadge.

Why, tys the onlye tye of faythfulines: Age is the onlye object of the harte, And by's experyence onlye hathe aspyrd Toth heyght of all perfectyon.

Mother, tys true your sonne, my cruell brother, The toe much wise, toe subtyll Ganelon, Onlye withdrawes

And tys thy last foule languadge.

Sir, tys a thyng I labour to mystake But cannot, for my starrs will have it thus.

Why, tys the onlye tye of faythfulines: Age is the onlye object of the harte, And by's experyence onlye hathe aspyrd Toth heyght of all perfectyon.