All your prerogatives, your shames, and tortures,
All daring heaven and opening hell about you—
Were I the man ye wrong'd so and provok'd,[90]
(Though ne're so much beneath you) like a box tree
I would out of the roughnesse of my root
Ramme hardnesse in my lownesse, and, like death
Mounted on earthquakes, I would trot through all
Honors and horrors, thorow foule and faire,[95]
And from your whole strength tosse you into the aire.
Mons. Goe, th'art a devill! such another spirit