Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

Nay, do not think I flatter. For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.

I am wrapped in dismal thinking.

Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.