At what o’clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee?

I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back.

I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company.

And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone: And yet no further than a wanton’s bird; Who lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty.

Sweet, so would I: Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. Exit above.