But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
To unpathed waters, undreamed shores.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent.