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• “Why do I yield to that suggestion

  Whose horrid images doth unfix my hair,

  And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,

  Against the use of nature?”

• Stars, hide your fires;

  Let not light see my black and deep desires.

• My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical
• Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more
• False face must hide what the false heart doth know
• if chance had me king why chance may crown me without a stir