O, thou art fairer than the evening air clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.
Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Confess and be hanged.
I'm armed with more than complete steel, - The justice of my quarrel.