cribs,
  Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
  And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
  Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
  Under the canopy of costly state,
  And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody? 
  O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile,
  In loathsome beds; and leav’st the kingly couch,
  A watch-case, or a common ’larum bell? 
  Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
  Seal up the ship-boy’s eyes, and rock his brains
  In cradle of the rude imperious surge;
  And in the visitation of the winds,
  Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
  Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
  With deaf’ning clamors in the slippery clouds,
  That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? 
  Can’st thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
  To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
  And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
  With all appliances and means to boot,
  Deny it to a king?  Then, happy low-lie-down! 
  Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

FALSTAFF AND BARDOLPH.

[From Henry IV.—­Part I.]

Falstaff.  Bardolph, am I not fallen away vilely since this last action? do I not bate? do I not dwindle?

Why, my skin hangs about me like an old lady’s loose gown; I am wither’d like an old apple-John.

Well, I’ll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking; I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent.  An I have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn, a brewer’s horse:  the inside of a church!  Company, villainous company hath been the spoil of me: 

Bardolph.  Sir John, you are so fretful, you cannot live long.

Fal.  Why, there it is.  Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry.  I was as virtuously given, as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough:  swore little; diced, not above seven times a week; paid money that I borrowed, three or four times; lived well, and in good compass:  and now I live out of all order, out of all compass.

Bard.  Why you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of all compass; out of all reasonable compass, Sir John.

Fal.  Do thou amend thy face, and I’ll amend my life:  Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop—­but ’tis in the nose of thee; thou art the knight of the burning lamp.

Bard.  Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm.

Fal No, I’ll be sworn; I make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death’s head or a memento mori:  I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire, and Dives that lived in purple; for there he is in his robes, burning, burning.  If thou wert anyway given to virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be:  By this fire:  but thou art altogether given over; and wert indeed,