My Lord, | |
These are the gloves that I did mention | |
Last night, and ’twas with the intention | |
That you should give me thanks and wear them, | |
For I most willingly can spare them. | |
5 | |
‘Damn me,’ cry you, ’she has writ to me; | |
I had better be at Bretby still | |
Than troubled with love against my will; | |
Besides, this is not all my sorrow: | |
10 | She writ today, she’ll come tomorrow.’ |
Then you consider the adventure | |
And think you never shall content her. | |
But when you do the inside see, | |
You’ll find things are but as they should be, | |
15 | And that ’tis neither love nor passion, |
But only for your recreation. |