The canker galls the infants of the spring / Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, / And in the morn and liquid dew of youth / Contagious blastments are most imminent.

Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, / When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul / Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, / Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, / Even in their promise, as it is a-making, / You must not take for fire.

What may this mean, / That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, / Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, / Making night hideous, and we fools of nature / So horridly to shake our disposition / With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole / With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, / And in the porches of my ears did pour / The leperous distilment,

He took me by the wrist and held me hard; / Then goes he to the length of all his arm; / And with his other hand thus o'er his brow, / He falls to such perusal of my face / As he would draw it.

He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound / As it did seem to shatter all his bulk / And end his being.

Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, / And with a look so piteous in purport / As if he had been loosed out of hell / To speak of horrors,

Am I a coward? / Who calls me villain, breaks my pate across? / Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? / Tweaks me by the nose, gives me the lie i’ th’ throat / As deep as to the lungs?

The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, / Black as his purpose, did the night resemble / When he lay couched in the ominous horse, / Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d / With heraldry more dismal.

For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter?