My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
Such tricks hath strong imagination, That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear!