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      Rightly to be great is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw when honour's at the stake. How stand I then,
that have a father killed, a mother stain'd, excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep, while to my shame I see the imminent death of twenty thousand men,
That for a fantasy and trick of fame go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent to hide the slain? O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!