-Horatio, thou art e'en as just a manAs e'er my conversation coped withal.-O, my dear lord,---Nay, do not think I flatter;For what advancement may I hope from theeThat no revenue hast but thy good spirits,To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter'd?No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,And crook the pregnant hinges of the kneeWhere thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?Since my dear soul was mistress of her choiceAnd could of men distinguish, her electionHath seal'd thee for herself; for thou hast beenAs one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,A man that fortune's buffets and rewardsHast ta'en with equal thanks: and blest are thoseWhose blood and judgment are so well commingled,That they are not a pipe for fortune's fingerTo sound what stop she please. Give me that manThat is not passion's slave, and I will wear himIn my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,As I do thee.

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