Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room.
It would not out at windows nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom
That all my bowels crumble up to dust.
I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
How fares your Majesty?
Poisoned—ill fare—dead, forsook, cast off,
And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw,
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burned bosom, nor entreat the North
To make his bleak winds kiss my parchèd lips
And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much.
I beg cold comfort, and you are so strait
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.
O, that there were some virtue in my tears
That might relieve you!
The salt in them is hot.
Within me is a hell, and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confined to tyrannize
On unreprievable, condemnèd blood.