And Oft, My Jealousy Shapes Faults That

Rumour: "upon My Tongues Continual Slanders Ride, The Which In Every Language I Pronounce, Stuffing The Ears Of Men With False Reports.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.

Treason And Murder Ever Kept Together, As Two Yoke-devils Sworn To Either's Purpose, Working So Grossly In A Natural Cause That Admiration Did Not Whoop At Them; But Thou, 'gainst All Proportion, Didst Bring In Wonder To Wait On Treason And On Murder; And Whatsoever Cunning Fiend It Was That Wrought Upon Thee So Preposterously Hath Got The Voice In Hell For Excellence.

Now My Charms Are All O'erthrown.

For What I Will, I Will, And There An End.