There’s nothing of so infinite vexation
As man’s own thoughts.
Lod. O thou glorious strumpet!
Could I divide thy breath from this pure air
When ‘t leaves thy body, I would suck it up,
And breathe ‘t upon some dunghill.
Vit. Cor. You my death’s-man!
Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough;
Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman:
If thou be, do thy office in right form;