Leave us to our free election.
In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.
But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.