The King he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself.
They have pitch’d a toil: I am toiling in a pitch—pitch that defiles—defile! a foul word. Well, “set thee down, sorrow!” for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well prov’d, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax. It kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep: well prov’d again a’ my side! I will not love; if I do, hang me; i’ faith, I will not. O but her eye—by this light, but for her eye, I would not love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love, and it hath taught me to rhyme and to be mallicholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my mallicholy. Well, she hath one a’ my sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper, God give him grace to groan!