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We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much proved, that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er The devil himself.

Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites: How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

Away, and mock the time with fairest show; False face must hide what the false heart doth khow.

O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side!

O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?

So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted-- I mean, his conversation with Shore's wife-- He lived from all attainder of suspects.

Were't not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honored love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.

In my mind's eye, Horatio.

I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.

If you can look into the seeds of time And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude.

Ingratitude is monstrous; and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of which we being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members.

This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart; And in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue great Caesar fell.

Ingratitude! thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child Than the sea-monster.

All the stored vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top!

What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vie whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood.

For 'tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petar, and 't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.

O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence Love takes the meaning in love's conference.

Hence, bashful cunning, And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!