1 I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.'
2 Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.'
3 Three thousand ducats, 'tis a good round sum.'
4 Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd.'
5 I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange.'
6 I know the hand, in faith 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ.'
7 So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.'
8 I speak too long, but 'tis to peise the time, To eche it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election.'
9 you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.'
10 Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it: So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.'