Now, Infidel, I Have You

The Pow'r That I Have On You Is To Spare You; The Malice Towards You To Forgive You.

Affection, Mistress Of Passion, Sways It To The Mood Of What It Likes Or Loathes.

Be Advised; Heat Not A Furnace For Your Foe So Hot That It Do Singe Yourself: We May Outrun, By Violent Swiftness, That Which We Run At, And Lose By Over-running. Know You Not, The Fire That Mounts The Liquor Til Run O'er, In Seeming To Augment It Wastes It?

Your Wisdom Is Consum'd In Confidence. Do Not Go Forth To-day.

Hamlet: Is This A Prologue, Or The Posy Of A Ring? Ophelia: 'tis Brief, My Lord. Hamlet: As Woman's Love.