Constant Penelope sends to thee, careless Ulysses.
Write not again, [bad word]  sweet mate, thyself to revive me.
Troy we do much envy, we desolate lost ladies of Greece,
Not Priamus, nor yet all Troy can us [bad word] make.
 Oh, that he had, when he first took shipping to Lacedaemon,
That adulter
 I mean, had been o’erwhelmed with waters.
Then had I not lain now all alone, thus quivering for cold,
Nor used [bad word]  nor have thought the day to be so long.