proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep: well proved again o' 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 melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' 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! Ay me! Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid: thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows: Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light; Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep: No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show: But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel, No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell. How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper: Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! Ay me, I am forsworn! Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame! One drunkard loves another of the name. Am I the first that have been perjured so? I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know: Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society, The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to