Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.

Alas, how love can trifle with itself!

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!

true apothecary thy drugs art quick