The Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.
I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!