I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants' fears Decrease not, but grow faster than the years; And should he doubt it, as no doubt he doth, That I should open to the list'ning air How many worthy princes' bloods were shed To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope, To lop that doubt, he'll fill this land with arms And make pretense of wrong that I have done him; When all, for mine, if I may call offense, Must feel war's blow, who spares not innocence; Which love to all, of which thyself art one, Who now reproved'st me for't--