If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.
The patient must minister to himself
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.
I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.