Falsehood falsehood cures
My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
Misery makes sport to mock itself.
An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.