God shall be my hope, My stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins, That almost freezes up the heat of life.
All things are ready if our minds be so.
If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatured torment to her! Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child!
Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.
There's a great spirit gone!
I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth.
'Tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.
We marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature—change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leaped into my seat; the thought whereof Doth, like a poisonous mineral, gnaw my inwards.