This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

The fear's as bad as falling.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .

I hold my peace, sir? no; No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.

I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.