(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.


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