I am in bloodStepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
And nothing is, but what is not.
What are you doing sister? / Killing swine.
Your face, my thane, is as a book where menMay read strange matters. To beguile the time,Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye,Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,But be the serpent under't.
I have no spurTo prick the sides of my intent, but onlyVaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itselfAnd falls on the other.
The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white.
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