How all occasions do inform against me
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unused. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event
A thought which, quartered, hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward; I do not know
Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do’
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do it.

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