I love thee; none but thee, and thou deservest it
See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
O, had I but followed the arts!
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.