'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

Foul whisp'rings are abroad.

Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.

No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!

Let them obey that knows not how to rule.

Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.