Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!

This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad.

In delay there lies no plenty.

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.