And where two raging fires meet together, they do consume the thing that feeds their fury.
Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
It is thyself, mine own self's better part; Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart; My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.