And worse I may be yet: the worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.
Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!
Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
... And death unloads thee.
Oh, I am fortune's fool!