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Or bitter-sweet commingled? Say

Which of Love’s pleasures doth apay

Thine heart the best? Hast thou not then

For master one who slaveth men

All unawares, and evermore

Torments them? Fickle Fortune bore

Her kindly toward thee when she set

Thy feet within Love’s trammelling net,

And made of thee his bond! ’Tis clear

That little fathomed’st thou the cheer

Of him thou took’st for master, or

Thou ne’er hadst laid that fardel sore

Across thy shoulders, or, if thou

Becam’st his man, wouldst scarce, I trow,

Have borne his yoke a summer through,

Nor day, nor hour, had bowed thereto,

But, doubt I not, without delay

His homage hadst thou cast away.

Still dost thou know him?”

“Yea, heartwhole.”

“You jest!”

“Not I.”

“Upon thy soul?”