My rage is gone$$$
And I am struck with sorrow.

If you have writ your annals true$$$ ’t is there$$$
That$$$ like an eagle in a dovecote$$$ I
Fluttered your Volscians in Corioles.
Alone I did it. Boy!

Let me have war$$$ say I: it exceeds peace as far as day does night: it's sprightly waking$$$ audible$$$ and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy$$$ lethargy; mulled$$$ deaf$$$ sleepy$$$ insensible: a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.

Anger's my meat: I sup upon myself$$$
And so shall starve with feeding.

There is a world elsewhere.

Action is eloquence.

His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident$$$
Or Jove for’s power to thunder.

But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic$$$
And manhood is called foolery when it stands
Against a falling fabric.

What is the city but the people?

More of your conversation would infect my brain$$$ being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians.