Deep are the wounds which strike a virtuous name,
Sharp are the darts Revenge still sets on wing:
Consuming Jealousy's abhorred flame!
Deadly the frowns of an enraged king.
Yet all these to Disdain's heart-searching string,
Deep, sharp, consuming, deadly, nothing be,
Whose darts, wounds, flames, and frowns, meet all in me.

'Tis I who lost by the wrestling between myself and the crone; she took from me the pith of my (?) mind; she put the back of my head to earth. My blood and flesh she took from me; she put a wheeze in my chest; an unlucky one for me to meet was the monster; God pursue her with his wrath.
She put confusion in my head and great it was, seeing men dead and alive — the likeness of Hector from Iroy and of the champions who were in the army of Rome; a crone dismal, bent, and swart, who was full of scandal and lies, who plunged me in delirium every moment, who chased my reason away.

I went down to Paible one morning when 'twas very cold; my boon companion met me, he and Lachlan Ruadh; we made for the knoll where there was a goodly gathering of people: as they missed us with the bottle, here is my tale to tell of it.
We sat down by the fire, and the lads were in our company; the slobber-lipped miller went ben with his whine, enlarging on the number he had seen and saying he could not serve them all — " There are three weather-worn fellows down there as broad as any in the land. "

If flowers could always bloom at eve
As sweetly as they bloom at morn;
If joys could ne'er take wing and leave
Our hearts to languish all forlorn: —
Then flowers would ne'er seem half so bright,
And joys would ne'er be half so dear, —
The sweetest dawn of morning light
Is that we gaze on through a tear!

vnder a Gentlewoman's Picture.

Euen as Apelles could not paint Campaspes face aright:
Because Campaspes Sun-bright eyes did dimme Apelles sight:
Euen so, amazed at her sight, her sight, all sights excelling,
Like Nyobe the Painter stoode, her sight his sight expelling,
Thus Art and Nature did contend, who should the Victor bee,
Till Art by Nature was supprest, as all the worlde may see.

Maister Iohn Steuenton , of Dothill , in the County of Salop , Esquire.

Sith Conscience (long since) is exilde the Citty,
O let her in the Countrey, finde some Pitty;
But if she be exilde, the Countrey too,
O let her finde, some fauour yet of you.

Edward Leigh , of Grayes Inne.

IMage of that, whose losse is here lamented;
(In whom, so many vertues are containd)
Daine to accept, what I haue novv presented.
Though Bounties death, herein be not fained,
In your mind, she not reuiue (with speed)
Then will I sweare, that shee is dead indeed.

Great Lady, sith I haue complyde thy Prayse,
(According to my skill and not thy merit:)
And sought thy Fame aboue the starrs to rayse;
(Had I sweete Ovids vaine, or Virgils spirit)
I craue no more but this, for my good will,
That in my Want, thou wilt supplye me still.

In Prose thy proud heart burst: & on the Breach
May Surgeons hall, doctrine & Vses preach.
Or liue, from rotten lungs to Parbreake drosse
May bring thy neck at length t'endure a crosse.

Man worse then worme, in bloud first sprawling lies
Naked, & wanting all, for w ch it cries
It sucks, thriues, & becomes a comelye beast
But thinks itself an angell at the least.
Takes it a storme; it shrinks, laments, & wrings,
In sunnshine frisks, & feasts, & flatters kings.
Getts wealth, builds, threatens, fullfills all its lust
And last is rotten & forgotten Dust.