My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.
The king’s name is a tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse party want.
Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
So wise so young, they say, do never live long.
Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
In thy foul throat thou liest.
Get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand betwixt two churchmen.
Divinely bent to meditation; And no worldly suit would he be moved, To draw him from his holy exercise.
Dispute not with her; she is lunatic.
But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil: And thus I clothe my naked villany With old odd ends stolen out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.