Beside it, like a vain, loud multitude,
Vexing the self-content of wisest men:
That we will be dread thought beneath thy brain,
And foul desire round thine astonished heart,
And blood within thy labyrinthine veins,
Crawling like agony.
Pro. Why use me thus now,
Yet am I king over my self's rule,
The torturing and conflicting throes within,
As Jove rules you when hell grows mutinous."