We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.
Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.