'Tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself.
But we are soldiers, And may that soldier a mere recreant prove, That means not, hath not, or is not in love.
I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th' imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense.
Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech To stir men's blood; I only speak right on.
Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my King, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
He makes a July's day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.
These lies are like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable.
So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day and of this gracious meeting.
Run, run, Orlando, carve on every tree The fair, the chaste, and unexpressive she.