Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others.
O war! thou son of Hell!
true apothecary thy drugs art quick
O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.