Stay. I prithee, tell me what thou think’st of me.
That you do think you are not what you are.
The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon
Than love that would seem hid.
O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
If one should be a prey, how much the better
To fall before the lion than the wolf!
—God bless thee, lady!
Take the Fool away.
Do you not hear,