No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? 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.⁠—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d.

Good my lord, How does your honour for this many a day?

My lord, I have remembrances of yours, That I have longed long to re-deliver; I pray you, now receive them.

No, not I; I never gave you aught.