A ministering angel shall my sister be.

The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.

Few love to hear the sins they love to act.

Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O any thing, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness, serious vanity, Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms, Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health, Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is! This love feel I, that feel no love in this.

Conscience doth make cowards of us all.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.

I and my bosom must debate awhile, and then I would no other company.