Spread Yourself Upon His Bosom

Let Argument Bear No Unmusical Sound.

Whom The Disease Of Talking Still Once Posses-seth, He Can Never Hold His Peace.

Though I Am Young, And Cannot Tell Either What Death Or Love Is Well, Yet I Have Heard They Both Bear Darts, And Both Do Aim At Human Hearts. And Then Again, I Have Been Told Love Wounds With Heat, As Death With Cold; So That I Fear They Do But Bring Extremes To Touch, And Mean One Thing. As In A Ruin We It Call One Thing To Be Blown Up, Or Fall; Or To Our End Like Way May Have By A Flash Of Lightning, Or A Wave; So Love’s Inflamèd Shaft Or Brand May Kill As Soon As Death’s Cold Hand; Except Love’s Fires The Virtue Have To Fight The Frost Out Of The Grave.

[the Play] Is Like To Be A Very Conceited Scurvy One, In Plain English.

Where It Concerns Himself, Who's Angry At A Slander, Makes It True.