RUMOUR: "Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

What a fool honesty is.

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.

I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !