My lodging upon the cold floor is,
And wonderful hard is my fare,
But that which troubles me more, is
The fatness of my dear.
Yet still I do cry, O, melt, love,
And I prythee now melt apace;
For thou art the man I should long for,
If 'twere not for thy grease.
Pinguister sings.
Then prythee don't burden thy heart still,
And be deaf to my pitiful moan;
Since I do endure the smart still,
And for my fat do groan;
Then prythee now turn, my dear love,
And I prythee now turn to me;
For, alas! I am too fat still
To roll so far to thee.
Mir. That were not modesty in me to turn
To you; but if you can roll to me within
This hour, I'll marry you in spite of all
Your fat.
Ping. Agreed, then I shall gain thee yet;
You must lie still then.
Mir. Yes, yes.
Ping. Sure, I am
Sysiphus's stone, for as fast as I turn
Over, I think I turn back again, else I
Must needs have been come to my journey's end
[He rolls to her, and she rolls from him.
By this time; for I am of such a breadth,
That every roll I give I pass over
An acre at least. Thou liest still, my love,
Dost thou not?