do not answer me. My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this I know; and to be bound by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her best array bear her to my bed, But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my lord and you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’ FIRST MUSICIAN. Then will I rouse ye, Till then, adieu; and keep this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not.