O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
You are strangely troublesome.
Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.