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.
The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes.
The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.
The apparel oft proclaims the man.
That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue.
Season your admiration for awhile.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records.
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart?
On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.