It were but shame for one to smite us, who
Could but weep louder.
A Shakespearean trick is copied in such lines as:
All other women's praise
Makes part of my blame, and things of least account
In them are all my praises.
And there is a jester who talks in a metre that might have come straight out of Beaumont and Fletcher, as here:
I am considering of that apple still;
It hangs in the mouth yet sorely; I would fain know too
Why nettles are not good to eat raw. Come, children,