Gloucester, We Have Done Deeds Of Charity,

Her Father Lov'd Me; Oft Invited Me; Still Question'd Me The Story Of My Life, From Year To Year, The Battles, Sieges, Fortunes, That I Have Pass'd.

The Even Mead, That Erst Brought Sweetly Forth The Freckled Cowslip, Burnet, And Green Clover, Wanting The Scythe, All Uncorrected, Rank, Conceives By Idleness, And Nothing Teems But Hateful Docks, Rough Thistles, Kecksies, Burrs, Losing Both Beauty And Utility.

And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

Come Not Within The Measure Of My Wrath.

See How She Leans Her Cheek Upon Her Hand. O, That I Were A Glove Upon That Hand That I Might Touch That Cheek!