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Love! his affections do not that way tend;Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a little,Was not like madness. There's something in his soul,O'er which his melancholy sits on brood;And I do doubt the hatch and the discloseWill be some danger: which for to prevent,I have in quick determinationThus set it down: he shall with speed to England,For the demand of our neglected tributeHaply the seas and countries differentWith variable objects shall expelThis something-settled matter in his heart,Whereon his brains still beating puts him thusFrom fashion of himself. What think you on't?