Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames and idle hours in me, The scope and tenor of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great: It is my love that keeps mine eye awake: Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy sake: For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with others all too near.

Let life be short, else shame will be too long.

Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

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

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other side

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.