The expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action.

Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in our plumes.

He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit; For 'tis a throne where honor may be crowned Sole monarch of the universal earth.

O shame, where is thy blush?

I will go tell him of Hermia's flight:
Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
Pursue her; and for this intelligence
If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
To have his sight thither and back again.

I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.