Sord monologue (Act 3) — Every Man out of His Humour

What curses breathe these men! how have my deeds Made my looks differ from another man's, That they should thus detest and loath my life! Out on my wretched humour! it is that Makes me thus monstrous in true humane eyes. Pardon me, gentle friends, I'll make fair 'mends For my foul errors past, and twenty-fold Restore to all men, what with wrong I robb'd them: My barns and garners shall stand open still To all the poor that come, and my best grain Be made alms-bread, to feed half-famish'd mouths. Though hitherto amongst you I have lived, Like an unsavoury muck-hill to myself, Yet now my gather'd heaps being spread abroad, Shall turn to better and more fruitful uses. Bless then this man, curse him no more for the saving My life and soul together. O how deeply The bitter curses of the poor do pierce! I am by wonder changed; come in with me And witness my repentance: now I prove, No life is blest, that is not graced with love. [EXIT.