The bug which you would fright [me] with I seek.
To me can life be no commodity:
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went. My second joy
[And] first-fruits of my body, from his presence
[I am] barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort,
Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast,
The innocent milk in [it] most innocent mouth,
Haled out to murder: myself on every post