BRAKENBURY: I will, my lord: God give your grace good rest! Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night. Princes have but their tides for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil; And, for unfelt imagination, They often feel a world of restless cares: So that, betwixt their tides and low names, There's nothing differs but the outward fame.