Be getting on, for they depart not 'fore
The cock is risen, six at morn, so what
Or whom be done? Confound thine chamberpot,
or chambers thine. My fob-sack brims with skins
Of noblest lamb; my knaves garment their knobs
With prophylactic raiments similar!
So extinguish the torches, gates be shut
As well. But what? What, ho? The love with which
We plow our seed be not thine truest love,
but that which be for garden implements.
So light thine pipes, dear sirs, with tinctures green,
Knave up, dames down; lend ears, and bounce to this!