I was adored once too.
I humbly do beseech of your pardon, For too much loving you
The good I stand on is my truth and honesty.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distinct, divisions none.
There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.