Avaunt, you cullions!
...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.
Every inordinate cup is unbless'd, and the ingredient is a devil.
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire; that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.