Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear.

[III, ii, 16–27] All but overcome already by the anticipation of love, Troilus is sure he will be overwhelmed by love in fact – annihilated as effectively by pleasure, perhaps, as he might be by death in battle:

I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.

Th’ imaginary relish is so sweet

That it enchants my sense. What will it be,

When that the watery palate tastes indeed

Love’s thrice-repurèd nectar? – death, I fear me,

Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine,

Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,

For the capacity of my ruder powers.

I fear it much; and I do fear besides

That I shall lose distinction in my joys,

As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps

The enemy flying.

Sir Thomas More

[Addition III] Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, looks back upon his dizzying rise to power, and vows never to place any trust in the gifts of fortune:

It is in heaven that I am thus and thus,

And that which we profanely term our fortunes

Is the provision of the power above,

Fitted and shaped just to that strength of nature

Which we are born withal. Good God! Good God!

That I from such an humble bench of birth

Should step as ’twere up to my country’s head

And give the law out there – ay, in my father’s life

To take prerogative and tithe of knees

From elder kinsmen, and him bind by my place

To give the smooth and dexter way to me

That owe it him by nature. Sure, these things

Not physicked by respect, might turn our blood

To much corruption. But More, the more thou hast–

Either of honour, office, wealth and calling,

Which might excite thee to embrace and hug them–

The more do thou in serpents’ natures think them,

Fear their gay skins with thought of their sharp state

And let this be thy maxim: to be great

Is, when the thread of hazard is once spun,

A bottom great wound up, greatly undone.

Measure for Measure

[II, ii, 162–87] Angelo, most pious of officials, claims he has resisted every other feminine temptation without difficulty, but is attracted despite himself to the chaste Isabella:

What’s this? What’s this? Is this her fault or mine?

The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?

Ha?

Not she, nor doth she tempt; but it is I

That, lying by the violet in the sun,

Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,

Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be

That modesty may more betray our sense

Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough,

Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!

What dost thou? Or what art thou, Angelo?

Dost thou desire her foully for those things

That make her good? O, let her brother live:

Thieves for their robbery have authority

When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her,