For since these arms of mine had seven years pith,
’Till now some nine months wasted, they have us’d
Their dearest action in the rafted barn;
And little of the theatre can I speak,
More than pertains to claps, and groans, and hisses;
And therefore little shall I grace my cause
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience
I will a round unvarnish’d tale deliver,
Of my whole course of life; what cork, what brick dust,
What poverty, and what mighty shifts,