No, Pandarus, I stalk about her door,
Like to a strange soul upon the Stygian banks
Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon,
And give me swift transportance to these fields
Where I may wallow in the lily-beds
Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandar,
From Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings,
And fly with me to Cressid!
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 wat’ry palates taste indeed
Love’s thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me,
Sounding destruction, or some joy too fine,
Too subtile, potent, tun’d 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.