Emotions and Feelings

And my large kingdom for a little grave, A little little grave, an obscure grave.

As is my grief, or lesser than my name, Or that I could forget what I have been, Or not remember what I must be now.

Eating the bitter bread of banishment.

Things past redress are now with me past care.

The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.

Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul remembering my good friends.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows.

That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

O! who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer’s heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages, and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?

Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; Take honor from me, and my life is done.

The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation.

Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true.

I beg cold comfort.

This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.