Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.

Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus.

Melt Egypt into Nile!

Queen. The lady doth protest too much, me thinks.

If we shadows have offended, Think but this,—and all is mended,— That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend; If you pardon, we will mend.

Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.