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GOOD MORROW FRIAR
Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art up-rous’d with some distemp’rature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right— Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.
God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?
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