Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man

I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.

O, while you live, tell truth, and shame the Devil!

Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.

Foul whisp'rings are abroad.