Szekspir powszedni

                          

If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.

    

                                 Adieux, adieux, adieux. Remember me.

                                 Sleeping within my orchard,

                                 My custom always of the afternoon

                                 Methinks I scent the morning air.

                                 It did seem to shatter all his bulk

                                 And end his being.

                                 Something have you heard

                                  of X's transformation — so call it

                                  sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man

                                  resembles that it was.

                                 And I, of ladies most deject and wretched

                                 Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!


                                 We shall obey, were she ten times our mother!



                                 Have you any further trade with us?