She looks like sleep, As she would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace.
These violent delights have violent ends, And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume.
Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away; My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
She thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her.
My library Was dukedom large enough.
The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distempered blood Than to make up a free determination 'Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision.
Who ever knew the heavens menace so?
I have nothing Of woman in me; now from head to foot I am marble-constant.