About your years, my lord.
Too old by heaven: let still the woman take
An elder than herself: so wears she to him,
So sways she level
in her husband's heart:
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn,
Than women's are.
I think it well, my lord.
Then let thy love be younger than thyself,
Or thy affection cannot hold the bent;
For women are as roses,
whose fair flower
Being once display'd, doth fall that very hour.
And so they are: alas, that they are so;
To die, even when they to perfection grow!
Re-enter CURIO and Clown
O, fellow, come, the song we had last night.
Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain;
The spinsters and the
knitters in the sun
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones
Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth,
dallies with the innocence of love,
Like the old age.
Are you ready, sir?
Ay; prithee, sing.
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away breath;
I am slain by
a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O, prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O,
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
There's for thy pains.
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