In sooth, I know well why I am so sad.
My friends are weary, and so am I—for I am weary in love.
Tell me, my noble kinsman, what have I not given you, what would I not give you at the drop of a hat,
That you wish for this lady, whose love you would not place my life above.

All the world's a stage—and my character has no happy ending.
I turn my face away as I watch you leave, so you don't see the tears as I grieve.
Tell me, my prodigal lover, how long must I keep pretending
That my heart's not breaking with every breath I heave.

How can someone be so delicate as they trample over my heart?
While you talk lovingly of the heiress, I sit like my grandsire carved in alabaster,
For to lose you feels just as hard as when the moneylender tried to tear me apart.
But by all means, take all from me, and pay me back at your leisure.

Perhaps Cupid ran out of arrows after he pierced my heart with his last,
Or missed his mark while aiming at yours.
Perhaps on me a curse has been cast, for my days of joy to end so fast,
But I've been begging on my knees—shoot another arrow, or pull this one out and cure these sores.

It is to me that you owe the most—in money and in love both.
I want not my money back, but the love and youth I lent you for free.
So shoot another arrow, and fulfill your oath,
Or if the heiress fails you, just come running back to me.

I hope you speak of me well in death, for my soul has already passed.
A pound of flesh won't make a difference, when I'm less than a ghost lurking in shadows.
Your honourable wife will be aghast, that her love has been surpassed
By the man drowning himself in his sorrows—unless you show mercy, and shoot another arrow.

-Antonio's unrequited love for Bassanio in The Merchant Of Venice

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