There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

A harmless necessary cat.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.

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.

So quick bright things come to confusion.​​​​​​

true apothecary thy drugs art quick