And so to sleep till the morning, but was bit cruelly
And there, did what I would with her
Content as to be at our own home, after being abroad awhile
Found guilty, and likely will be hanged (for stealing spoons)
Half a pint of Rhenish wine at the Still-yard, mixed with beer
His readiness to speak spoilt all
No more matter being made of the death of one than another
Out of an itch to look upon the sluts there
Plague is much in Amsterdam, and we in fears of it here
Pride himself too much in it
Reckon nothing money but when it is in the bank
Resolve to live well and die a beggar
Scholler, that would needs put in his discourse (every occasion)
She was so ill as to be shaved and pidgeons put to her feet
The plague is got to Amsterdam, brought by a ship from Argier
We having no luck in maids now-a-days
Who is over head and eares in getting her house up