Hold truce, thou elder brother! for we are,
In feature, as the sun is to a star.
So are we like, and we are touch’d in tune
With lunacy as music; and the moon,
That setteth the tides sentinel before
Thy camp of waters, on the pebbled shore,
And measures their great footsteps to and fro,
Hath lifted up into my brain the flow
Of this mad tide of blood—ay? we are like
In foam and frenzy; the same winds do strike,