You are not worth the dust which the rude wind
Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:
nature, which contemns its origin,
Cannot be border'd certain in itself;
She that herself will sliver and disbranch
her material sap, perforce must wither
And come to deadly use.
No more; the text is foolish.
Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile:
Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?
not daughters, what have you perform'd?
A father, and a gracious aged man,
Whose reverence even
the head-lugg'd bear would lick,
Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.
Could my good
brother suffer you to do it?
A man, a prince, by him so benefited!
If that the heavens do not their visible
Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,
It will come,
Humanity must perforce prey on itself,
monsters of the deep.
That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;
Who hast not in thy brows an eye
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st
Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd
they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum?
France spreads his banners in our noiseless land;
plumed helm thy slayer begins threats;
Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest
'Alack, why does he
See thyself, devil!
Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman.
O vain fool!
Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,
Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness
these hands obey my blood,
They are apt enough to dislocate and tear
Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou
art a fiend,
A woman's shape doth shield thee.
Marry, your manhood now
Enter a Messenger
O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall's dead:
Slain by his servant, going to put out
The other eye of
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.