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Ay, marry, is't:But to my mind, though I am native hereAnd to the manner born, it is a customMore honour'd in the breach than the observance.This heavy-headed revel east and westMakes us traduced and tax'd of other nations:They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phraseSoil our addition; and indeed it takesFrom our achievements, though perform'd at height,The pith and marrow of our attribute.So, oft it chances in particular men,That for some vicious mole of nature in them,As, in their birth--wherein they are not guilty,Since nature cannot choose his origin--By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason,Or by some habit that too much o'er-leavensThe form of plausive manners, that these men,Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect,Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,--Their virtues else--be they as pure as grace,As infinite as man may undergo--Shall in the general censure take corruptionFrom that particular fault: the dram of ealeDoth all the noble substance of a doubtTo his own scandal.