These molds of men made noble by your services, Your daylie sweatts.

O, my Boy, Thy teares are dew-drops, sweet as those on roses, But mine the faint and yron sweatt of sorrow.

The trobled sea is yet scarce navigable Synce the last tempest: yet wee that only lyv By our owne sweatt and labour, nor cann eate Beffore wee fetch our foode out of the sea, Must ventur thoughe with daunger or bee suer With empty stomakes go unsupt to bed.

l. 3. C] how I begin to sweatt now? l. 7. C] out upon it.