Let journalers traduce their filthy souls:
Why bring ye me their scandals, when to truths,
That daily I must hear, I wish me deaf?
Luc. O sir, Rome thinks thou árt deaf: and men whisper
That creeping time devours thee sense by sense,
While thou, death’s willing prey, dost sit at home
Wreathing philosophies to hang the tomb
Of liberty, and crown the coward brows
Of icy oblivion. Sir, if this were true,
Well mightst thou wish not hear: but if thou hast not