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And what I am you made me. If some day
I ever were damn'd, which kind Heav'n forbid!
'Twould be of you, you only, led astray!


Sylvester:

Woman look only in the glass and mark
Your petty peevish mouth and foolish chin,
Mean, narrow brows with envy's wrinkles scored.
The Devil had no need your door to storm,
For it stood ever open and ajar,
That any wandering demon might harbour there.
Not fenced and guarded for God's garden, you!
Your soul lay ever fallow for the Fiend:
No alabaster box of ointment, once
To gracious holy service consecrate
Turn'd now to basest uses, always you
Were vessel of dishonour.


Madam Pomeroy:

Part we thus?