1 O step between her and her fighting soul.
2 How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul, consent.
3 I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites.
4 To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss.
5 I prythee, when thou see'st that act a-foot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle.
6 Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
7 O such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words.
8 O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural.
9 Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct.
10 Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks.
11 For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal.
12 Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade.
13 But howsoever thou pursu'st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught; leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, To prick and sting her.
14 I do know, When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat, extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You must not take for fire.
15 O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise.
16 Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage, Or in th'incestuous pleasure of his bed, At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't, Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes.
17 But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.
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