Hobocaster Faine

Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice
Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air

If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh?
if you poison us, do we not die?
and if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

I could be well moved, if I were as you:
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
But I am constant as the northern star


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