On Constance, that she lies in life’s last hope.
To all of us thou hast done unmeasured ill:
What is thy plea?
Pal.Though God himself should curse me,
My purpose hath been good.
Man.Ay, that I’ll grant:
Thou’rt for the right, but being too hot upon it
Mistakest right. Thou art numbered with the madmen
Who, thinking the whole world’s unhappiness
Hangs on one string, tread all else underfoot