Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
Tis the times' plague, when madmen lead the blind.