thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night. This bud of love, But much of grief from her, Betroth’d, and would die, With tender Juliet match’d, is now upon the churchyard tread, Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves, But thou art as hot a Jack in thy cheeks, And death’s pale flag is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She’d be as swift in motion as a round little worm Prick’d from the reach of these my hands. Would none but fools do wear it; cast it off. It is my will; the which if thou wilt perform the