To answer—I’ll not wed—I cannot love—
I am too young—I pray you pardon me.
But, an’ you will not wed. Look to’t—think on’t—
I do not use to jest; Thursday is near—
An’ you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An’ you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets;
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee.
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief!
Shakspere.