And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope.
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time, for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
What are these so wither’d and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth, and yet are on’t?