DEATH
Ye
liuely maiden, dost thy foot now tyre?
From many dances, men of high degree,
Ye fragile herte has lost its dancing fyre:
And now ye finale partner will be me.
MAIDEN
Stay
thy hand! th'art brutish, ugly and thinne!
Thy fingers bruise my shoulder, hard as stone!
What be this carriage thou usher'st me inne?
Begone from hence, with thy foul face of bone!
click on the link for the image to this poem!