Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, more than quick words, do move a woman's mind.
The due of honor in no point omit.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.
My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.