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The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she promised to return.
O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love
Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face.
Peter, stay at the gate.
Jesus, what haste? Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath?
How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?
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