To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.

How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.

Wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.

So. Lie there, my art.

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.