What be this pother? For what cause suspectsMy mind so many thieves will rob my garth,When all pay forfeit (as on us they light)Of being diggèd deep to bending loins?Here be no better Figs than neighbours, figsNor Grapes as pluckt by blond-haired Areté,Nor Apples grafted on Picenian stock,Nor Pear-fruits worthy such a risk to run,