Why, then give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses!
— — — — —
If heaven have any grievous plague in store,
Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O, let them keep it, till thy sins be ripe,
And then hurl down their indignation
On thee, the troubler of the poor world’s peace!
The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul!
Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou livest,
And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!