(II, i, 221-229)
October 30, 2012 § Leave a comment
Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone–
And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,
That lets it hop a little from his hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
I would I were your bird.
Sweet, so would I.
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.