What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; the worst is death and death will have his day.
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.
Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
He makes a July's day short as December.
If wishes would prevail with me, my purpose should not fail with me.