So. Lie there, my art.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.
The Play's the Thing, wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King.
They love least that let men know their loves.
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty, Youth's a stuff will not endure.