Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I took thee for thy better.

Ecstasy! / My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time, / And makes as healthful music. It is not madness / That I have utter’d.

See what a grace was seated on this brow, / Hyperion’s curls, the front of Jove himself, / An eye like Mars, to threaten and command, / A station like the herald Mercury / New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill

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.

And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, / Repast them with my blood.