For I Can Raise No Money By

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

O' Thinkest Thou We Shall Ever Meet Again? I Doubt It Not; And All These Woes Shall Serve For Sweet Discourses In Our Times To Come.

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.

O Call Not Me To Justify The Wrong, That Thy Unkindness Lays Upon My Heart, Wound Me Not With Thine Eye But With Thy Tongue, Use Power With Power, And Slay Me Not By Art.

Thou Art A Very Ragged Wart.