I am falser than vows made in wine.
O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Though I be but prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy.
See where she comes apparelled like the spring.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.