Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance

O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.