The stronger for the bondage, whose restraint
Would kill the tree. It may be that mine age
Has made me too unbending, that my thoughts.
For ever travelling in the same sad course,
Have worn themselves such grooves within my brain
As ceaseless care has graved upon my brow,
And cannot change their channels. Ye, my friends,
Who love me for my virtues, or in spite
Of vices,-who with me have borne the brunt
Of turbulent sedition, and the blows