either by this count I shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am sure, I have more cunning to be talked on, yet they are past our dancing days; How long is it not be? What, dress’d, and in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit With Cupid’s arrow, she hath prais’d him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor. Thou and these woes thine, Thou and my wife!