MARCIUS: May these same instruments, which you profane, Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft as the parasite's silk, Let him be made a coverture for the wars! No more, I say! For that I have not wash'd My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch.-- Which, without note, here's many else have done,-- You shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical; As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies.