Than in a strong castle, remoted from thee:
My death's bruise pray think you gave me, tho' a fall
Did give it me more from the top of a wall:
For then if the moat on her mud would first lay,
And after before you my body convey:
The blue on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh, there's a true blue for me.
Ha, rogues! when I am merry, I write these things as fast as hops, egad; for, you must know, I am as pleasant a cavalier as ever you saw; I am, i'faith.
Smith. But, Mr. Bayes, how comes this song in here? for methinks there is no great occasion for it.
Bayes. Alack, sir, you know nothing; you must ever interlard your plays with songs, ghosts, and dances, if you mean to—a—