Make Me a Willow Cabin

Good madam, let me see your face.

Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. Look you, sir, such a one I was this present: is't not well done?

Excellently done, if God did all.

'Tis in grain, sir; 'twill endure wind and weather.

'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on: Lady, you are the cruell'st she alive, If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty: it shall be inventoried. But, sir, how does your master love me?

With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

Your lord does know my mind; I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago.

If I did love you in my master's flame, With such a suffering, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense; I would not understand it.

Why, what would you?

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out 'Olivia!' O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me!

You might do much. What is your parentage?