Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
We will have rings and things and fine array
Men in rage strike those that wish them best.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.