Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.
For I am proverbed with a grandsire phrase.
Men in rage strike those that wish them best.
What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.