1 About it; and write happy when thou hast done.
2 All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.
3 Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell.
4 Thou hast spoken right, 'tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here.'
5 Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of justice.
6 I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
7 Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg'd on you.
8 Thou hast her, France: let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again.
9 Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace; The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts.
10 Thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude; Thy half o the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd.
11 They could not, would not do't; 'tis worse than murder, To do upon respect such violent outrage: Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us.'