O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, 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; Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes; To point his low unmoving finger at,— Yet could I bear that too; well, very well : Or keep it as a cistern, for foul toads To knot and gender in! turn thy complexion there! INGRATITUDE. Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Although thy breath be rude. Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous, when thou shew'st thee in a child, Filial ingratitude! 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, This was the most unkindest cut of all: Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 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,- - For him, poor soul.-The proudest of you all O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption; man; Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart; Three Judasses, each one thrice worse than Judas! 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, INNOCENCE. My lords, I care not, (so much I am happy INSTINGT.-IRELAND.-IRRESOLUTION. 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 129 There's none stands under more calumnious tongues, Than I myself, poor man. INSTINCT. Let the Volces Plough Rome and harrow Italy; I'll never IRELAND. Now for our Irish wars : We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, IRRESOLUTION. 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, J. JEALOUSY. 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, |