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Poem	VEnemous toung tipt with vile adders sting, Of that selfe kynd with which the Furies tell theyr snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring of poysoned words and spitefull speeches well. Let all the plagues and horrid paines of hell, vpon thee fall for thine accursed hyre: that with false forged lyes, which thou didst tel, in my true loue did stirre vp coles of yre, The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre, and catching hold on thine owne wicked hed consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire in my sweet peace such breaches to haue bred. Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward. dew to thy selfe that it for me prepard.
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