Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, with sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear.
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.