The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.