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.

There's beggary in love that can be reckoned

My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.

Thy friendship makes us fresh.

We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.

I would not wish any companion in the world but you.