The misery of us that are borne great,

We are forc’d to woe, because none dare woe us:

And as a tyrant doubles with his words,

And fearefully equivocates, so we

Are forc’d to expresse our violent passions

In ridles and in dreames, and leave the path

Of simple vertue, which was never made

To seeme the thing it is not. Goe, go brag

You have left me heartlesse; mine is in your bosom:

I hope ’twill multiply love there. You doe tremble: