William Shakespeare

O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart
With pity that doth make me sick.

O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart
With pity that doth make me sick.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
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Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied read more

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 pitch and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth,
But, read more

Chide him for faults, and do it reverently,
When you perceive his blood inclined to mirth,
But, being moody, give him time and scope,
Till that his passions, like a whale on ground,
Confound themselves with working.

If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries,
I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.

If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries,
I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.