How all occasions do inform against me,/ And spur my dull revenge! What is a man/ If his chief good and market of his time/ Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more./ Sure, he that made us with such large discourse,/ Looking before and after, gave us not/ That capability and godlike reason/ To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be/ Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple / Of thinking too precisely on th' event—/ A thought which, quartered, hath but one part wisdom/ And ever three parts coward—I do not know/ Why yet I live to say “This thing’s to do,”/ Sith I have cause and will and strength and means/ To do ’t. Examples gross as earth exhort me./ Witness this army of such mass and charge/ Led by a delicate and tender prince,/ Whose spirit with divine ambition puffed/ Makes mouths at the invisible event,/ Exposing what is mortal and unsure/ To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,/ Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great/ Is not to stir without great argument,/ But greatly to find quarrel in a straw/ When honor’s at the stake. How stand I then,/ That have a father killed, a mother stained,/ 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? Oh, from this time forth,/ My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! (IV.iv.34-68)…