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Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring; Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse, choose but weep, to think they would lay him i' the cold ground. That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, Look, whether he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse, Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; Why, let the strucken deer go weep, Whore in big trouble.