Sord monologue (Act 1) — Every Man out of His Humour

Ay, and the prints of them stick in my flesh, Deeper than in their letters: they have sent me Pills wrapt in paper here, that, should I take them, Would poison all the sweetness of my book, And turn my honey into hemlock juice. But I am wiser than to serve their precepts, Or follow their prescriptions. Here's a device, To charge me bring my grain unto the markets: Ay, much! when I have neither barn nor garner, Nor earth to hid it in, I'll bring 't; till then, Each corn I send shall be as big as Paul's. O, but (say some) the poor are like to starve. Why, let 'em starve, what's that to me? are bees Bound to keep life in drones and idle moths? no: Why such are these that term themselves the poor, Only because they would be pitied, But are indeed a sort of lazy beggars, Licentious rogues, and sturdy vagabonds, Bred by the sloth of a fat plenteous year, Like snakes in heat of summer, out of dung; And this is all that these cheap times are good for: Whereas a wholesome and penurious dearth Purges the soil of such vile excrements, And kills the vipers up.