If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.

So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer, whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow

Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.