Fie! Out! upon thy head, thou foul

and useless wretch, thou pale, thou strumpet, thou book!

That bleared form that dost upon my brow 

set wrinkles, creases, pains upon my look.

If not for thee I could make merry all 

the day, find food, down drink, and leave to sway

such wondrous women as would make thee pale

beside, and keep me wealthy, fat, and gay.

But since I am to thee betrothed, I sit,

I sweat, I ponder all too much the lines 

of writ.  With taper all my night is lit,
and in thy dead embrace my day reclines.

Oh, would my scholar’s wit with mad combine

that I could break, wreak vengeance on thy spine.