FIRST LORD. O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream: 'Poor deer,' quoth he 'thou mak'st a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone, Left and abandoned of his velvet friends: ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques 'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; 'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?' Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse, To fright the animals, and to kill them up In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.

O Yes Into a Thousand Similes

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