O Mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low: Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know. What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies not plenty; Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

Is she not passing fair?

Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.

Cry "havoc!" and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!