There lives within the very flame of love A 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 do, We should do when we would; for this ’would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ’should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing.
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She has a reputation as a spendthrift.
"You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift," said the count, and having kissed his wife’s hand he went back to his study.