Believe me, love, it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book. I’ll bury thee in thy breast. Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest. Hence will I be general of your nine lives; that I were so apt to quarrel as thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all thy veins