You cannot call it love; for, at your age
The hey-day in the blood[126] is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment: And what judgment
Would step from this to this?
O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell,
If thou canst mutine,[127] in a matron's bones,
To flaming youth let virtue be as wax,
And melt in her own fire.
Queen. O, Hamlet, speak no more:
Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul;
And there I see such black and grainèd spots
As will not leave their tinct.[128]