And be these juggling fiends no more believed, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear, And break it to our hope.
Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make’s love known?
My plenteous joys, Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
My more-having would be as a sauce to make me hunger more.
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself And falls on th’ other.
I bear a charmed life.
Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessèd time, for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o’erfraught heart and bids it break.
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
What’s done cannot be undone.
What are these so wither’d and so wild in their attire, that look not like the inhabitants o’ the earth, and yet are on’t?