Hier monologue — The Spanish Tragedy

Where shall I run to breath abroad my woes,-- My woes whose weight hath wearied the earth, Or mine exclaims that have surcharg'd the air With ceaseless plaints for my deceased son? The blust'ring winds, conspiring with my words, At my lament have mov'd to leafless trees, Disrob'd the meadows of their flower'd green, Made mountains marsh with spring-tides of my tears, And broken through the brazen gates of hell; Yet still tormented is my tortur'd soul With broken sighs and restless passions, That, winged, mount, and hovering in the air, Beat at the windows of the brightest heav'ns, Soliciting for justice and revenge. But they are plac'd in those empyreal heights, Where, countermur'd with walls of diamond, I find the place impregnable, and they Resist my woes and give my words no way.