untender

Thou told’st me , when we came from horse , the place
Was near at hand . Ne’er longed my mother so
To see me first as I have now . Pisanio , man ,
Where is Posthumus ? What is in thy mind
That makes thee stare thus ? Wherefore breaks that
sigh
From th’ inward of thee ? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplexed
Beyond self-explication . Put thyself
Into a havior of less fear , ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses . What’s the matter ?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with
A look untender ? If ’t be summer news ,
Smile to ’t before ; if winterly , thou need’st
But keep that count’nance still . My husband’s hand !
That drug-damned Italy hath out-craftied him ,
And he’s at some hard point . Speak , man ! Thy tongue
May take off some extremity , which to read
Would be even mortal to me .

So young and so untender ?