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Come now a roundel, and a fairy song;
Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,
And sometimes comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Who should be trusted, when one's own right hand
Is perjur'd to the bosom? Protheus,
I am sorry, I must never trust thee more,
But, fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell!
My love to Hermia,
Melted as doth the snow, seems to me now
So the whole ear of Denmark
Is by a forged process of my death
You told a lie; an odious, damned lie Upon my soul, a lie ; a wicked lie.
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;
The evil, that men do, lives after them;
Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues
Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heav'n!
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
'Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to nought.
Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
death I wish no other herald,
O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,
When it deserves with characters of brass
Tell me, where is fancy bred ;
All impediments in fancy's course
Are motives of more fancy.
What fates impose, that men must needs abide;
O momentary grace of mortal men,
Which we more hunt for than the grace of God Who builds his hope in air of your fair looks,
Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast;
Ready, with every nod, to tumble down
Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
Never to hope again.
'Tis the curse of service;
She may help you to many fair preferments;
Whence is that knocking!
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
His horrid image doth unfix my hair,
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,
You make me strange
Even to the disposition that I owe,
When now I think you can behold such sights,
Why, what should be the fear?
I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And, for my soul, what can it do to that,
O, these flaws, and starts, (Impostors to true fear,) would well become A woman's story, at a winter's fire,
Authoriz'd by her grandam.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears;
And though thou now confess, thou did'st but jest,
But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
And each particular hair to stand on end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
The devil damn thee black, thou cream-fac'd loon !
Accursed be the tongue that tells me so,
I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool'd
As life were in't: I have supp'd full of horrors;
He that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,
Doth conquer him that did his master conquer,