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What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?
The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crow-keeper; But let them measure us by what they will; We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.
Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.
Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles. I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
You are a lover; borrow Cupid's wings, And soar with them above a common bound
I am too sore empierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers, and so bound, I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
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