ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

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)