Your praise is come too swiftly home before you
[010] Know you not, master, to some kind of men
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours: your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
O, what a world is this, when what is comely
[015] Envenoms him that bears it!
[016] Orl. Why, what’s the matter?
Adam.
O unhappy youth!