1 Nature's above art in that respect.
2 Howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee.
3 Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound.
4 Now thou art an O without a figure: I am better than thou art now.
5 Thou art a boil, A plague sore, or embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood.
6 If thou be'st as poor for a subject as he's for a king, thou art poor enough.
7 I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou hast wrong'd me.
8 Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue That art incestuous.
9 Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
10 A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows; Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity.
11 But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that's in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine.
12 Thou art a lady; If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st Which scarcely keeps thee warm.
13 This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish'd, But cozen'd and beguil'd.
14 Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom down precipitating, Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg: but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound.