Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
Why, this is very midsummer madness.
I wear my rue with a difference.
Tis not a year or two shows us a man: They are all but stomachs and we all but food: They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us.
Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift; Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I'll tell thee thou dost evil.
As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
For I can raise no money by vile means.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this,—and all is mended,— That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend; If you pardon, we will mend.