King: There lives within the very flame of love
A kind of kick 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.
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