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Rumble thy bellyful. Spit, fire;
spout, rain.
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire,
are my daughters.
I
tax
not you, you
elements,
with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d
you children;
You owe me no
subscription.
Then let fall
Your
horrible pleasure.
Here I stand, your slave,
A poor,
infirm,
weak and
despis’d
old man;
But yet I call you
servile ministers
That will with two
pernicious
daughters join
Your high-engender’d battles
‘gainst a head
So
old and white as this. O, ho! ‘tis foul! |
