And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!

Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears: Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.

To saucy doubts and fears.

But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face; but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.