Pardon, Gentles All, The Flat Unraised Spirits

The Gods Are Just, And Of Our Pleasant Vices Make Instruments To Plague Us.

He Is Dead And Gone, Lady, He Is Dead And Gone; At His Head A Grass-green Turf, At His Heels A Stone.

So Many Miseries Have Craz'd My Voice, That My Woe-wearied Tongue Is Still And Mute.

You Lie, In Faith; For You Are Call'd Plain Kate, And Bonny Kate And Sometimes Kate The Curst; But Kate, The Prettiest Kate In Christendom Kate Of Kate Hall, My Super-dainty Kate, For Dainties Are All Kates, And Therefore, Kate, Take This Of Me, Kate Of My Consolation; Hearing Thy Mildness Praised In Every Town, Thy Virtues Spoke Of, And Thy Beauty Sounded, Yet Not So Deeply As To Thee Belongs, Myself Am Moved To Woo Thee For My Wife.

O That My Tongue Were In The Thunder's Mouth! Then With Passion Would I Shake The World.