John Fletcher

No discerner durst wag his tongue in censure.

but if I spared any / That had a head to hit, either young or old, / He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, / Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again

[…] if you omit / The offer of this time, I cannot promise / But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces, / With these you bear already.

Thes. This way the Stag tooke.

The birch upon the breeches of the small ones, / And humble with a ferula the tall ones,

Thou purger of the Earth, draw thy feared sword / That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones / Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them;