But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
Conscience doth make cowards of us all.