Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north And, being angered, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.

He is wise And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.

Nay, I’ll conjure too. Romeo! Humors! Madman! Passion! Lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh. Speak but one rhyme and I am satisfied.