The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse.
In half an hour she promised to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so.
Oh, she is lame! Love’s heralds should be thoughts,
5Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,
Driving back shadows over louring hills.
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
10Of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours, yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She would be as swift in motion as a ball.
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
15And his to me.
But old folks, many feign as they were dead,
Unwieldy, slow, heavy, and pale as lead.
Enter NURSE and
O God, she comes.—O honey Nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
20Peter, stay at the gate.
Now, good sweet Nurse— O Lord, why look’st
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily.
If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.