Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume

Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.

As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue

The head is not more native to the heart.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet Though to itself it only live and die