Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
What made me love thee? let that persuade thee, there's something extraordinary in thee
You taught me language, and my profit on't / Is, I know how to curse
For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.
Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself.