I Loved Ophelia. Forty Thousand Brothers Could

Thrice Is He Arm'd That Hath His Quarrel Just, And He But Naked, Though Lock'd Up In Steel, Whose Conscience With Injustice Is Corrupted.

This Act Is An Ancient Tale New Told; And, In The Last Repeating, Troublesome, Being Urged At A Time Unseasonable.

To Business That We Love We Rise Betime, And Go To't With Delight.

Violent Fires Soon Burn Out Themselves, Small Showers Last Long, But Sudden Storms Are Short; He Tires Betimes That Spurs Too Fast.

But Now I Am Cabined, Cribbed, Confined, Bound In To Saucy Doubts And Fears.