I just start singing, and it all comes back.

Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes And interchanged love tokens with my child; Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung With feigning voice verses of feigning love.

Every night he comes With musics of all sorts, and songs composed To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us To chide him from our eaves, for he persists As if his life lay on't.

She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the shearers--three-man songmen all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases, but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes.

Nay, now you are too flat, And mar the concord with too harsh a descant.

His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.