I Will Speak Daggers To

How Many Fond Fools Serve Mad Jealousy!

I Have Unclasp'd To Thee The Book Even Of My Secret Soul.

Tis Gold Which Buys Admittance--oft It Doth--yea, And Makes Diana's Rangers False Themselves, Yield Up This Deer To Th' Stand O' Th' Stealer: And 'tis Gold Which Makes The True Man Kill'd And Saves The Thief, Nay, Sometimes Hangs Both Thief And True Man.

Miracles Are Ceased; And Therefore We Must Needs Admit The Means, How Things Are Perfected.

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.