Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.

I scorn you, scurvy companion.

I feel it gone, yet know not when it left.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.