You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face. I fear your disposition: That nature, which contemns it origin, Cannot be border'd certain in itself; She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use. Gon. No more; the text is foolish. Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; he dus ind I feat temp liver Der Filths savour but themselves. A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence the headlugg'd bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefited! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep. Gon. Milk-liver'd man! That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats, Whiles thou, a moral fool, sitt'st still, and criest 'Alack! why does he so?' Alb. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. Gon. O vain fool! Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame, Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, |