And good success hath bred impatient moods.
Rome puffs us up, and makes us too—too fierce.
There, Britons, there we stand, whence Rome did fall.
Thou, Lucius, mak’st me proud, thou heav’st my mind:
But what? shall I esteem a crown ought else
Than as a gorgeous crest of easeless helm,
Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp,
Or glittering glass which, while it shines, it breaks?
All this a sudden chance may dash, and not
Perhaps with thirteen kings, or in nine years: