Many a duteous and knee-crooking knaveThat, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his time, much like his master‘s ass,
For nought but provender; and when he‘s old,
cashier‘d:Whip me such honest knaves. Others there areWho, trimm‘d in forms and visages of duty,
Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves;And, throwing but shows of service on their lords,
Do well thrive by them, and when they have lin‘dtheir coats,
Do themselves homage: these fellows have somesoul;And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor, I would not be lago:In following him, I follow but myself;Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so for my peculiar end:For when my outward action doth demonstrateThe native act and figure of my heartIn complement extern, ‘tis not long after