Fair Ladies, Masked, Are Roses In Their

He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.

Time's Glory Is To Command Contending Kings, To Unmask Falsehood, And Bring Truth To Light.

Oh, Injurious Love, That Respites Me A Life, Whose Very Comfort Is Still A Dying Horror

If She Be Not Honest, Chaste, And True, There's No Man Happy.

Were I The Moor I Would Not Be Iago. In Following Him I Follow But Myself; Heaven Is My Judge, Not I For Love And Duty, But Seeming So For My Peculiar End. For When My Outward Action Doth Demonstrate The Native Act And Figure Of My Heart In Compliment Extern, ’tis Not Long After But I Will Wear My Heart Upon My Sleeve For Daws To Peck At. I Am Not What I Am