1 Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear'st thy gods in vain.
2 By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard.'
3 Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense.
4 As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, They kill us for their sport.
5 Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now.
6 You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please.
7 Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men's impossibilities, have preserv'd thee.
8 The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes.
9 But to the girdle do the gods inherit, beneath is all the fiend's; there's hell, there's darkness, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption.