You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!

More can I bear than you dare execute.

Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, but thankful even for hate that is meant love.