Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light; Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English.
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
Thou weedy elf-skinned canker-blossom!
GLOUCESTER: I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds, More than the infant that is born to-night: I thank my God for my humility.