When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.

Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.