Wha weds a cankert thriftless wife, / Weds to his days eternal strife, / For, like the Tron-Kirk bell, / She ever hammers on his lugs, / Till her an' hame at last he uggs / As the dire door o' hell!

There has been no change in his condition.

Wherefore should I / Stand in the plague of custome, and permit / The curiosity of Nations, to deprive me? For that I am some twelve, or fourteen Moonshines / Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base? / When my Dimensions are as well compact, My minde as generous, and my shape as true / As honest madams issue? Why brand they us / With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?

This is one of the scariest books I have ever read!