I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white.
I am in bloodStepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under't.
And nothing is, but what is not.
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.