Beseemeth he would with her spangle nights
And wear her as the stars wear satellites,
To him she is the lightning to the cloud,
The rain to summer, to death the shroud,
Dreams to eyes, sleep to the weary, rest
To the yearning or ambitious breast.
We prithee, pedagogue, if so be you know,
Why does this sheep love little Mary so?
Shakespeare.
——:o:——