The cruelty and envy of the people,Permitted by our dastard nobles, whoHave all forsook me, hath devoured the rest;And suffered me by th’ voice of slaves to beWhooped out of Rome. Now this extremityHath brought me to thy hearth, not out of hope–Mistake me not — to save my life; for ifI had feared death, of all the men i’ th’ worldI would have ‘voided thee; but in mere spite,To be full quit of those my banishers,Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hastA heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revengeThine own particular wrongs, and stop those maimsOf shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight,And make my misery serve thy turn. So use itThat my revengeful services may proveAs benefits to thee; for I will fightAgainst my cank’red country with the spleenOf all the under fiends.
But if so beThou dar’st not this, and that to prove more fortunesTh’ art tired, then, in a word, I also amLonger to live most weary; and presentMy throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;Which not to cut would show thee but a fool,Since I have ever followed thee with hate,Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast,And cannot live but to thy shame, unlessIt be to do thee service.