I Understand A Fury In

The Play's The Thing, Wherein I'll Catch The Conscience Of The King.

The Loyalty, Well Held To Fools, Does Make Our Faith Mere Folly.

The Big Round Tears Cours'd One Another Down His Innocent Nose, In Piteous Chase.

To Kill, I Grant, Is Sin's Extremest Gust; But, In Defence, By Mercy, 'tis Most Just.

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.