O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.
Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.