I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

We cannot all be masters.

Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?

I thank you all and here dismiss you all, and to the love and favor of my country commit myself, my person, and the cause.

Take you me for a sponge?

Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

In jest, there is truth.