The venom clamors of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth

Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker may fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharged of breath As violently as hasty powder fired Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child

I essentially am not in madness, but mad in craft.

All goodnessIs poison to thy stomach.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls,
Doing more murder in this loathsome world,
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.