It will not be for ought that beawtie can[°].
I kisse, I clap, I feele[°], I view at will,
Yett dead he lyes[°], not thinking good or ill.
"Unhappie me," quoth shee, "and wilt' not stand?[°]
Com, lett me rubb and chafe[°] it with my hand!
Perhaps the sillie worme is labour'd[°] sore,
And wearied that it can[°] doe noe more;
If it be so, as I am greate a-dread[°],
I wish tenne thousand times that I were[°] dead.
How ere it is, no meanes shall want[°] in me,