We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.

Oh, what a bitter thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can-- No, not the hangman's axe--bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy.

My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man, whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at, Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous.