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unheard! Just heavens, it cannot be!

Why, tyranny itself could do no more:

The pale ghosts of Tiberius and Nero

Would blush to see an act so foul and horrid,

So full of black ingratitude as this!

'Twas I that set the crown upon his head,

And bid him live king of his enemies,

When he durst hardly hope it:

And does he thus requite me? Now I see,

Who by the compass of his merit sails,

May guide his fraught of hopes in seasons fair

And calm; but, when storms come,

All his good deeds, with his good days, must perish.

O my unhappy stars!

Ser. My lord, let not a fruitless passion

Make you to die less man than you have lived.

Clar. Who art thou?

Ser. I was lately one, my lord,

Of the vast crowd that waited on your fortunes;

But am now become the whole train: the rest have left you.

Clar. Prithee, do thou leave me too.

The clap o' th' vulgar and loud popular applause

Are not the echo of our acts, but Fortune's.

Great men but dials are, which, when the sun

Is gone or hides his face, are hardly look'd upon.

But yesterday I was time's minister:

On me the whole court gaz'd, as at

Some comet set in Cassiopeia's chair:

Who but old Clarimont could with nods create,