Most sweet voices!
Better it is to die, better to starve,
Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.
Why in this woolvish toge should I stand here,
To beg of Hob and Dick that does appear
Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to’t.
What custom wills, in all things should we do’t,
The dust on antique time would lie unswept, and mountainous error be too highly heaped for truth to o’erpeer. Rather than fool it so,
Let the high office and the honor go
To one who would do thus. I am half through:
The one part suffered, the other will I do.