In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me well: And as the wretch, whose fever-weaken’d joints, Like strengthless hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper’s arms, even so my limbs, Weaken’d with grief, being now enraged with grief, Are thrice themselves.
There are no more uses of "wretch" in the play.
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Pity the poor wretch.
If you pay the blackmail, you will remain at the mercy of the unscrupulous wretch.