The Wooden O

Where if it be thy chance to kill me, thou kill'st me like a rogue and a villain

I hear news which grieves me: that my fair city of London, where I wrote and play'd, hath been sore wounded with base treachery. Even in her day of triumph, some rabble of base villains did think to undermine her defences, smiting her below ground, vile slinking cullions as they are.

But London is no green-sickness virgin, to be sent reeling from one blow to her nether regions. Nay, faith, the old dame is made of sterner stuff; beneath her cloud-capp'd towers she is stone and steel and solid English earth, and any dint in her honour will be soon made whole. Since my time, she hath endured frost, fire and plague; she hath known battle in her streets, and fire hath been dropt on her out of the air; and she suffer'd much in the Irish wars. She has weathered all, and she will weather this.

The words of London's Mayor and those of some of her citizens tell me I am not i'the wrong.