What Showers Arise, Blown With The Windy

I Am Not Yet Of Percy's Mind, The Hotspur Of The North; He That Kills Me Some Six Or Seven Dozen Of Scots As A Breakfast, Washes His Hands, And Says To His Wife, 'fie Upon This Quiet Life! I Want Work.

This Is The Very Coinage Of Your Brain: This Bodiless Creation Ecstasy.

That God Forbid, That Made Me First Your Slave, I Should In Thought Control Your Times Of Pleasure, Or At Your Hand Th' Account Of Hours To Crave, Being Your Vassal Bound To Stay Your Leisure.

It Easeth Some, Though None It Ever Cured, To Think Their Dolour Others Have Endured.

Thou Whoreson, Senseless Villain!