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 Should I a jot the better see? No, I should think that marriage might, Rather than mend, put out the light. Mop-eyed, shortsighted.

Thou cam'st to cure me, doctor, of my cold, And caught'st thyself the more by twenty fold: Prithee go home; and for thy credit be First cured thyself, then come and cure me.

Go, happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her, too, she must not be Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter'd me. Say, if she's fretful, I have bands Of pearl and gold to bind her hands. Tell her, if she struggle still, I have myrtle rods (at will) For to tame, though not to kill. Take thou my blessing, thus, and go And tell her this, but do not so, Lest a handsome anger fly, Like a lightning, from her eye, And burn thee up as well as I.