irregulous

Yes , sir , to Milford Haven . Which is the way ?
I thank you . By yond bush ? Pray , how far thither ?
Ods pittikins , can it be six mile yet ?
I have gone all night . Faith , I’ll lie down and sleep .

But soft ! No bedfellow ? O gods and goddesses !
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world ,
This bloody man the care on ’t . I hope I dream ,
For so I thought I was a cave-keeper
And cook to honest creatures . But ’tis not so .
’Twas but a bolt of nothing , shot at nothing ,
Which the brain makes of fumes . Our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgments , blind . Good faith ,
I tremble still with fear ; but if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren’s eye , feared gods , a part of it !
The dream’s here still . Even when I wake it is
Without me as within me , not imagined , felt .
A headless man ? The garments of Posthumus ?
I know the shape of ’s leg . This is his hand ,
His foot Mercurial , his Martial thigh ,
The brawns of Hercules ; but his Jovial face —
Murder in heaven ! How ? ’Tis gone . Pisanio ,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks ,
And mine to boot , be darted on thee ! Thou ,
Conspired with that irregulous devil Cloten ,
Hath here cut off my lord . To write and read
Be henceforth treacherous . Damned Pisanio
Hath with his forgèd letters — damned Pisanio —
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the maintop . O Posthumus , alas ,
Where is thy head ? Where’s that ? Ay me , where’s that ?
Pisanio might have killed thee at the heart
And left this head on . How should this be ? Pisanio ?
’Tis he and Cloten . Malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here . O , ’tis pregnant , pregnant !
The drug he gave me , which he said was precious
And cordial to me , have I not found it
Murd’rous to th’ senses ? That confirms it home .
This is Pisanio’s deed , and Cloten . O ,
Give color to my pale cheek with thy blood ,
That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us . O my lord ! My lord !