Lay not that flattering unction to your soul / That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.

O'er whom his very madness, like some ore / Among a mineral of metals base, / Shows itself pure. He weeps for what is done.

For like the hectic in my blood he rages, / And thou must cure me.

We go to gain a little patch of ground / That hath in it no profit but the name. / To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; / Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole / A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.

This is th'imposthume of much wealth and peace, / That inward breaks, and shows no cause without / Why the man dies.

Sure he that made us with such large discourse, / Looking before and after, gave us not / That capability and godlike reason / To fust in us unus'd.

Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them.

The Queen his mother / Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— / My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— / She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, / That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, / I could not but by her.

It warms the very sickness in my heart / That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, / ‘Thus diest thou.’

When in your motion you are hot and dry, / As make your bouts more violent to that end, / And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him / A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, / If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, / Our purpose may hold there.