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O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire : proclaim no shame,
And reason panders will.
Had it pleas'd heaven
To try me with affliction; had he rain'd
All kinds of sores, and shames, on my bare head;
Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
To knot and gender in ! turn thy complexion there!
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend,
More hideous, when thou shew'st thee in a child, Than the sea-monster!
Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand,
For lifting food to't.
We'll no more meet, no more see one another :-
Which I must needs call mine; thou art a boil,
In my corrupted blood: but I'll not chide thee.
I hate ingratitude more in a man,
Than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness,
Inhabits our frail blood.
This was the most unkindest cut of all:
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
I have kept back their foes,
While they have told their money, and let out
She hath tied
Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here.
If she must teem,
Create her child of spleen, that it may live,
He ne'er drinks,
Not a man would speak,-
O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption;
Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart;
Pr'ythee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
My lords, I care not, (so much I am happy
Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw them,
I know my life so even.
I humbly thank your highness:
And am right glad to catch this good occasion
There's none stands under more calumnious tongues, Than I myself, poor man.
Let the Volces
Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never
Now for our Irish wars :
We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win,
By fearing to attempt.
That we would do,
We should do when we would; for this would changes,
As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;
Now, whether it be Beastial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event,
A thought, which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom,
Like a man to double business bound,
The venom clamours of a jealous woman
Trifles, light as air,
Are, to the jealous, confirmation strong
These are the forgeries of jealousy:
And never, since the middle summer's spring,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
'Tis not to make me jealous,
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,