Digital facsimile of the Bodleian First Folio of Shakespeare's plays, Arch. G c.7
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Aron. Euen now I curse the day, and yet I thinke
Aron. Few come within few compasse of my curse,
Aron. Wherein I did not some Notorious ill,
Aron. As kill a man, or else deuise his death,
Aron. Rauish a Maid, or plot the way to do it,
Aron. Accuse some Innocent, and forsweare my selfe,
Aron. Set deadly Enmity betweene two Friends,
Aron. Make poore mens Cattell breake their neckes,
Aron. Set fire on Barnes and Haystackes in the night,
Aron. And bid the Owners quench them with the teares:
Aron. Oft haue I dig'd vp dead men from their graues,
Aron. And set them vpright at their deere Friends doore,
Aron. Euen when their sorrowes almost was forgot,
Aron. And on their skinnes, as on the Barke of Trees,
Aron. Haue with my knife carued in Romaine Letters,
Aron. Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.
Aron. Tut, I haue done a thousand dreadfull things
Aron. As willingly, as one would kill a Fly,
Aron. And nothing greeues me hartily indeede,
Aron. But that I cannot doe ten thousand more.