With full as many signs of deadly hate,
315 As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave:
My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words;
Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint;
[♦] Mine hair be fix’d on end, as one distract;
Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban:
320 And even now my burthen’d heart would break,
Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink!
[♦] Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste!
Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees!