Of nature’s sale-work. ’Od’s my little life,
[044] I think she means to tangle my eyes too!
045 No, faith, proud mistress, hope not after it:
[046] ’Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream,
[048] That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
050 Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than she a woman: ’tis such fools as you