For, look you, my poor soul is sore diseas’d.
Bar. Courage, my noble sir.
Vor. Time was, alas! I needed not this spur.
But here’s a secret and a stinging thorn,
That wounds my troubl’d nerves. O! conscience! conscience!
When thou didst cry, I strove to stop thy mouth,
By boldly thrusting on thee dire ambition:
Then did I think myself, indeed, a god!
But I was sore deceiv’d; for as I pass’d,
And travers’d in proud triumph the Basse-court,