Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard
To be the same in thine own act and valour,
As thou art in desire? Would’st thou have that
Which thou esteem’st the ornament of life,
And live a coward in thine own esteem;
Letting I dare not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat i’ the adage?
And what a deliciously smug Scotch answer is immediately forthcoming! Says the faint-hearted traitor:
I dare all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none.