If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame!
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.