For what advancement may I hope from thee, / That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits / To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d?

What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.

Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing, / Confederate season, else no creature seeing; / Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, / With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, / Thy natural magic and dire property / On wholesome life usurp immediately.

As woman's love.

A second time I kill my husband dead, / When second husband kisses me in bed.

The cease of majesty / Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw / What’s near it with it.

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.

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

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