A Countenance More In Sorrow Than In

The Bitter Past, More Welcome Is The Sweet.

Thou Dost Conspire Against Thy Friend, Iago, If Thou But Think'st Him Wronged, And Mak'st His Ear A Stranger To Thy Thoughts.

And Thence From Athens Turn Away Our Eyes To Seek New Friends And Stranger Companies.

I Will Not Trust You, I, Nor Longer Stay In Your Curst Company. Your Hands Than Mine Are Quicker For A Fray, My Legs Are Longer Though, To Run Away.

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!