Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, or hills, or fields, Or woods and steepy mountains, yield.
Is it not passing brave to be a King and ride in triumph through Persepolis?
Above our life we love a steadfast friend.
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.