You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are, the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have That honorable grief lodged here which burns Worse than tears drown.
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs ... Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?
Good fortune then! To make me blest or cursed'st among men.
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream That can entame my spirits to your worship.
His tears run down his beard like winter's drops From eaves of reeds.
When Caesar says, "Do this," it is performed.
Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
If we shall stand still In fear our motion will be mocked or carped at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State-statues only.
Can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt?