That you are utterly without a soule;505
And for your life, the thred of that was spunne
When Clotho slept, and let her breathing rock
Fall in the durt; and Lachesis still drawes it,
Dipping her twisting fingers in a boule
Defil'd, and crown'd with vertues forced soule:510
And lastly (which I must for gratitude
Ever remember) that of all my height
And dearest life you are the onely spring,
Onely in royall hope to kill the King.