O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.