That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
To do a great right do a little wrong.
You are strangely troublesome.
I would fain die a dry death.
For trust not him that hath once broken faith
If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.