You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
You have but mistook me all the while... I live by bread like you, taste grief, feel want, need friends. Conditioned thus how can you call me king?
The time is out of joint.
Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.