You go not til I set you up a glass
Where you may see the inmost part of you
(III.iv.)

How now! A rat! Dead for a ducat, dead!
(III.iv.)

Thou turn’st my eyes into my very soul
And there I see such black and grieved spots
(III.iv.)

Nay, but to live
In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed
Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love
Over the nasty sty
(III.iv.)