Ay me, sad hours seem long. O heavy lightness, serious vanity. A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. I have a soul of lead. Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like a thorn.
I fear… some consequence yet hanging in the stars, some vile forfeit of untimely death. Oh she doth teach the torches to burn bright! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows. Her vestal livery is but sick and green. O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek! Had I it written, I would tear the word. Look thou but sweet, and I am proof against their enmity. Too flattering sweet to be substantial. Well my pump is well flowered. Nay, good goose, bite not. The love-‐devouring Death do what he dare, it is enough I may but call her mine. Villain am I none; therefore farewell, I see thou knowest me not. This day… begins the woe that others must end. O, I am fortune’s fool. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say ‘death’! And fall upon the ground as I do now, taking the measure of an unmade grave In what vile part of this anatomy doth my name lodge? … hateful mansion. More