Better the musique, the more sicke it makes him
Contempt of the ceremoniousnesse of the King of Spayne
Listening to no reasoning for it, be it good or bad
Many women now-a-days of mean sort in the streets, but no men
Milke, which I drank to take away, my heartburne
No money to do it with, nor anybody to trust us without it
Rather hear a cat mew, than the best musique in the world
Says, of all places, if there be hell, it is here
So to bed in some little discontent, but no words from me
The gentlemen captains will undo us
To bed, after washing my legs and feet with warm water
Venison-pasty that we have for supper to-night to the cook's
With a shower of hail as big as walnuts
World sees now the use of them for shelter of men (fore-castles)