Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.
Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
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
Thou lump of foul deformity!
I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.