Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind
Was dukedom large enough
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spiriting gently.
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with’t.