“You mar our labour: keep your cabins:you do assist the storm[...] What cares these roarers for the name of king?”

“Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes.”

“Hence! home, you idle creatures get you home:Is this a holiday? what! know you not,Being mechanical, you ought not walkUpon a labouring day without the signOf your profession? Speak, what trade art thou?”

“Why, the wrong is but a wrong i'th'world; and having the world for your labour, 'tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it a right.”

“Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend youFrom seasons such as these? O, I have ta'enToo little care of this! Take physic, pomp;Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,And show the heavens more just.”

“What means this shouting? I do fear, the peopleChoose Caesar for their king.”

“Why, what's the matter,That you have such a February face,So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?”