May one be pardon’d and retain th’offence? / In the corrupted currents of this world / Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice, / And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself / Buys out the law.

Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend / Which is the mightier.

To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, / Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. / So full of artless jealousy is guilt, / It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, / That treason can but peep to what it would, / Acts little of his will.—

One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, / So fast they follow.

Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, / Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— / But let it be.

The point envenom'd too! Then, venom, to thy work.

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, / Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat / Awake the god of day;

The canker galls the infants of the spring / Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d, / And in the morn and liquid dew of youth / Contagious blastments are most imminent.

The chariest maid is prodigal enough / If she unmask her beauty to the moon.