life imitates art

This she? No, this is Diomed's Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she.
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god's delight;
If there be rule in unity itself, this was not she.
O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself; Bifold authority,
Where reason can revolt without perdition, and loss assume
All reason without revolt. This is and is not Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight of this strange nature,
That a thing inseperate divides more wider than the sky and earth.
And yet, the spacious breadth of this division
admits no orifice for a point as subtle as Ariachne's broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance, strong as Pluto's gates,
Cressid is mine! Tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance, strong as heaven itself,
The bonds of heaven are slipped, dissolved and loosed,
And with another knot, five-finger tied.
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o'ereaten faith, are bound to Diomed.