‘Tyrants swim safest in a crimson flood.’
· · · · ·
The two following lines—
‘Oh! I grow dull, and the cold hand of sleep
Hath thrust his icy fingers in my breast’—
are the same as those in King John—
‘And none of you will bid the winter come
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw.’
and again the Moor’s exclamation,
‘Now by the proud complexion of my cheeks,