I am one, my liege, / Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world / Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what / I do to spite the world.

So is he mine; and in such bloody distance, / That every minute of his being thrusts / Against my near’st of life;

There is none but he / Whose being I do fear: and under him / My genius is rebuk’d; as, it is said, / Mark Antony’s was by Caesar.

If there come truth from them / (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) / Why, by the verities on thee made good, / May they not be my oracles as well, / And set me up in hope?

So weary with disasters, tugg’d with fortune, / That I would set my life on any chance, / To mend it or be rid on’t.

We have lost best half of our affair.

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. / Now spurs the lated traveller apace, / To gain the timely inn; and near approaches / The subject of our watch.

Strange things I have in head, that will to hand, / Which must be acted ere they may be scann’d.

Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; / Augurs, and understood relations, have / By magot-pies, and choughs, and rooks, brought forth / The secret’st man of blood.—

If charnel houses and our graves must send / Those that we bury back, our monuments / Shall be the maws of kites.