Frailty, thy name is woman!

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, / And thus the native hue of resolution / Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, / And enterprises of great pith and moment, / With this regard their currents turn awry / And lose the name of action.

’Tis now the very witching time of night, / When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out / Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, / And do such bitter business as the day / Would quake to look on.

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

If it assume my noble father’s person, / I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape / And bid me hold my peace.

O most wicked speed, to post / With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! / It is not, nor it cannot come to good. / But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; / I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! / Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, / Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.

This is the very ecstasy of love, / Whose violent property fordoes itself, / And leads the will to desperate undertakings, / As oft as any passion under heaven / That does afflict our natures.

A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards / Hast ta’en with equal thanks. And blessed are those / Whose blood and judgement are so well co-mingled / That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger / To sound what stop she please.

Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: / When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, / Or in th’incestuous pleasure of his bed, / At gaming, swearing; or about some act / That has no relish of salvation in’t, / Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, / And that his soul may be as damn’d and black / As hell, whereto it goes.