"Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper; but I feel not This deity in my bosom. Twenty consciences, That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they, And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he’s like—that’s dead, Whom I with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed forever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course."