To be more brutish than a brute can be;
He is, methinks, with reverence of your grace,
Like one of the long-leggèd race
Of grasshoppers that leap in the air, and spring,
And straightway in the grass the same old song they sing;
’Twere well that from the grass he never rose,
On every stubble he must break his nose!
The Lord.
Hast thou then nothing more to say?
And art thou here again to-day