To all such guerdons as are shower’d on traitors,
When noble men are crush’d. And fear thou not:
’Tis but the kingly cedar which the storm
Hurls from his mountain throne—th’ ignoble shrub,
Grovelling beneath, may live.
Sylv. It is thy part
To tremble for thy life.
Seb. They that have look’d
Upon a heart like thine, should know too well
The worth of life to tremble. Such things make