Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you,—I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever, no, not for dwelling where you do; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt: so for this time, Pompey, fare you well.
We have made inquiry of you; and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital.
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It’s a sad song about the heartbreak of unrequited love.