For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

Go wisely and slowly. Those who rush stumble and fall.

But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent.

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!