When the blood burns, how prodigal the soulLends the tongue vows.

I am falser than vows made in wine

Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing.

The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony.

So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kinds of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep. To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep, He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will; . . .

Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. . . .