Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl
Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
Let me read. He reads.
Words, words, mere words,
no matter from the heart.
A whoreson phthisic, a whoreson rascally
phthisic so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of
this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I
shall leave you one o' these days. And I have a
rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my
bones that, unless a man were cursed, I cannot tell
what to think on ‘t.—What says she there?
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
Th' effect doth operate another way.
Go, wind, to wind! There turn and change together.
He tears up the paper and throws the pieces in the air.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds.