He has no children.—All my pretty ones? / Did you say all?—O hell-kite!—All? / What, all my pretty chickens and their dam / At one fell swoop?

Alas, poor country, / Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot / Be call’d our mother, but our grave,

Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak / Whispers the o’er-fraught heart, and bids it break.

Bleed, bleed, poor country! / Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, / For goodness dare not check thee!

I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; / It weeps, it bleeds; and each new day a gash / Is added to her wounds.

Let us rather / Hold fast the mortal sword, and, like good men, / Bestride our down-fall’n birthdom. Each new morn / New widows howl, new orphans cry; new sorrows / Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds / As if it felt with Scotland, and yell’d out / Like syllable of dolour.

This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, / Was once thought honest

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell: / Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, / Yet grace must still look so.

I shall do so; / But I must also feel it as a man: / I cannot but remember such things were, / That were most precious to me.—

I grant him bloody, / Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, / Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin / That has a name