Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad.
My heart is ever at your service.
This thought is as a death.
No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.