Not that I think you did not love your father; But that I know love is begun by time; And that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too much: that we would do, We should do when we would; for this “would” changes And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this “should” is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o’ the ulcer:⁠— Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake, To show yourself your father’s son in deed More than in words?