V.2
A time, methinks, too short 
To make a world-without-end bargain in.
No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much, 
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:
If for my love, as there is no such cause, 
You will do aught, this shall you do for me: 
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed 
To some forlorn and naked hermitage, 
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay until the twelve celestial signs 
Have brought about the annual reckoning.
 If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood;  
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts, 
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine
I will be thine; and till that instant shut 
My woeful self up in a mourning house, 
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father's death. 
If this thou do deny, let our hands part, 
Neither entitled in the other's heart.