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Iust soe much honor, when thou yeldest* to me [f. 100]
Will wast, as this fleas death tooke life from thee.|
The Curse
Who ever guesses, thinkes, or dreames he knowes
Who is my Mistres, whither* by this curse.
His only and only his purse
May some dull harte to loue dispose
And she yield then to all that are his foes
May he be scornd by one, whom all else scorne,
Forsweare to others, what to her he hath sworne
Wth feare of missing, shame of getting torne.|
Madnes his sorrow, Gowte his Cramps may hee
Make, by but thinking, who hath made him such,
And may he feele noe touch
Of Conscience, but of frame,* And be
Anguishd, not twas sinne, but that twas shee,
In Early and longe scarcenes may he rott
For land, wch had bin his, if he had nott
Himself incestuously an heire begott.|
May he dreame treason, and beleeve that he
Meant to performe it, and confesse and die
And noe record tell why,

[CW: His]