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HAM. Yonder’s the shop, and there my fair love sits.

She’s fair and lovely, but she is not mine.

O, would she were! Thrice have I courted her,

Thrice hath my hand been moist’ned with her hand,

Whilst my poor famish’d eyes do feed on that

Which made them famish. I am unfortunate:

I still love one, yet nobody loves me.

I muse in other men what women see

That I so want! Fine Mistress Rose was coy,

And this too curious! Oh, no, she is chaste,

And for she thinks me wanton, she denies

To cheer my cold heart with her sunny eyes.

How prettily she works, oh pretty hand!

Oh happy work! It doth me good to stand

Unseen to see her. Thus I oft have stood

In frosty evenings, a light burning by her,

Enduring biting cold, only to eye her.

One only look hath seem’d as rich to me

As a king’s crown;