Venemous toung tipt with vile adders sting,
    Of that selfe kynd with which the Furies fell
    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,
    upon thee fall for thine accursed hyre:
    that with false forged lyes, which thou didst tel,
    in my true love did stirre up 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 have bred.
Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward.
    dew to thy selfe that it for me prepard.