His eye begets occasion for his wit;
For every object that the one doth catch
The other read more

His eye begets occasion for his wit;
For every object that the one doth catch
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,
Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,
Delivers in such apt and gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

I hate
To tell again a tale once fully told.

I hate
To tell again a tale once fully told.

When thou dost tell another's jest, therein
Omit the oaths, which true wit cannot need;
Pick out read more

When thou dost tell another's jest, therein
Omit the oaths, which true wit cannot need;
Pick out of tales the mirth, but not the sin.

But that's another story.

But that's another story.

But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale read more

But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

For seldom shall she hear a tale
So said, so tender, yet so true.

For seldom shall she hear a tale
So said, so tender, yet so true.

This story will never go down.

This story will never go down.

Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.

Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.