Ben Jonson

    Liamhar citeretsidste år
    VOLP: O, I am wounded!
    MOS: Where, sir?
    VOLP: Not without;
    Those blows were nothing: I could bear them ever.
    But angry Cupid, bolting from her eyes,
    Hath shot himself into me like a flame;
    Where, now, he flings about his burning heat,
    As in a furnace an ambitious fire,
    Whose vent is stopt. The fight is all within me.
    I cannot live, except thou help me, Mosca;
    My liver melts, and I, without the hope
    Of some soft air, from her refreshing breath,
    Am but a heap of cinders.
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