Take you me for a sponge?
Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?
Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!