Gow. ^note
Now our sands are almost run;
More a little, and then dumb ^note.
This, my ^note last boon, give ^note me,
For such kindness must relieve me,
That you aptly will suppose
What pageantry, what feats ^note, what shows,
What minstrelsy and ^note pretty din,
The regent made in Mytilene, ^note
To greet the king. So he thrived ^note,
That he is promised to be wived
To fair Marina; but in no wise
Till he had done his sacrifice, ^note
As Dian bade: whereto being bound,
The interim, pray you, ^note all ^note confound.
In feather'd briefness sails are fill'd,
And wishes fall out as they're ^note will'd ^note.
At Ephesus, the temple see,
Our king and all his company.
That he can hither come so soon,
Is by your fancies' ^note thankful doom ^note. [Exit. ^note

^note

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