Rub-a-Dub-Dub

Those ills we have, the whips and scorns of time make mad the guilty and appall the free

I see ... twenty thousand men grunt and sweat under a weary life, go to their graves like beds to sleep and feed? No! With divine ambition

O, God! So excellent a king, potent with such spirits, send the patient [and] unworthy, mortal and unsure, season'd for his passage

So he goes to heaven