V. 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.
O. Why, what would you?
V. 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,
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out, "Olivia!" O, you should not rest
Between the element's of air and earth
But you should pity me.
O. You might do much.
-Twelfth Night
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