Every fair from fair sometime declines
And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.
It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.
How low am I, thou painted maypole?