Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.
In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.
Such as we are made of, such we be.