[001] Duke S. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
[005] Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
[006] The seasons’ difference; as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
010 ‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors