A hair’s breadth from wild boy,
promises amount to nothing
He speaks of honour and graces
with words that never sing.
Tortured soul, rest your head,
Time now to observe.
I am the keeper of that which you covet,
The adoration you so deserve.
Pray you, let’s have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say you this:
Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s day,
All in the morning betime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine.
Then up he rose, and donned his clothes,
And dupped the chamber door.
Let in the maid that out a maid
Never departed more.
Indeed, without an oath I’ll make an end on ’t:
By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fie, for shame!
Young men will do ’t, if they come to ’t.
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, “Before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed.”
“So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.”
– Hamlet, Act IV, Scene 5