by William Shakespeare
What, have I ’scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty,
And am I now a subject for them?
Let me see.
‘Ask me no reason why I love you;
For though Love use Reason for his physician,
He admits him not for his counsellor.
You are not young, no more am I;
Go to then, there’s sympathy:
You are merry,
So am I; ha, ha! then there’s more sympathy:
You love sack, and so do I;
Would you desire better sympathy?
Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page,
– at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice –
That I love thee.
I will not say, pity me;
’tis not a soldier-like phrase:
But I say, love me.
By me, thine own true knight,
By day or night,
Or any kind of light,
With all his might
For thee to fight,
What a Herod of Jewry is this!
O wicked world!
One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age
To show himself a young gallant!
What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard picked
– with the devil’s name! – out of my conversation,
That he dares in this manner assay me?
Why, he hath not been thrice in my company!
What should I say to him?
I was then frugal of my mirth:
Heaven forgive me!
Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament
For the putting down of men.
How shall I be revenged on him?
For revenged I will be,
As sure as his guts are made of puddings.