Must give us pawse. There’s the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life;
For who would beare the Whips and Scornes of time,
The Oppressors wrong, the poore man’s Contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d Love, the Lawes delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurnes
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himselfe might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardles beare,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,