Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.

Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

Make the upcoming hour overflow with joy, and let pleasure drown the brim.

GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .