Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world, scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them,-- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun.

For this relief, much thanks

The chameleon Love can feed on the air