Page:Hamlet - The Arden Shakespeare - 1899.djvu/62

 Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood, A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting, The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.

Oph. No more but so?

Laer. Think it no more: For nature crescent does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but, as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now; And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness weigh'd, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth; He may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself, for on his choice depends