And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove’s dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell!
It were a tedious difficulty, I think, To bring them to that prospect: damn them then, If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More than their own!
He has had most favourable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter’d rocks, and congregated sands,— Traitors ensteep’d to clog the guiltless keel,— As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona.
If my offence be of such mortal kind That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, Nor purpos’d merit in futurity, Can ransom me into his love again, But to know so must be my benefit; So shall I clothe me in a forc’d content, And shut myself up in some other course, To fortune’s alms.
I am glad thy father’s dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance.