Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
If you prick us, do we not bleed?
I’ll not budge an inch.
Villain, what hast thou done?
That which thou canst not undo.
Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin.
O horrible, O horrible, most horrible!
Happy in that we are not overhappy; on Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.
‘Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
Let me be cruel, not unnatural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood, —
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow?
Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly arm’d
Honour pricks me on. Yea, but
how if honour prick me off when I come
on? How then? Can honour set to a leg?
No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound?
No. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then?
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.