Statesman, yet friend to truth; of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov'd.
God and your arms be prais'd, victorious friends; The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.
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 cates: and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness prais'd in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, (Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,) Myself am mov'd to woo thee for my wife.
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