Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.
A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.