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Not that I think you did not love your father;But that I know love is begun by time;And that I see, in passages of proof,Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.There lives within the very flame of loveA kind of wick 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 doWe should do when we would; for this 'would' changesAnd hath abatements and delays as manyAs there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh,That hurts by easing. But, to the quick o' the ulcer:--Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake,To show yourself your father's son in deedMore than in words?