Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor
I will be free, even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.