He Kills Her In Her Own Humor.

A Time, Methinks, Too Short To Make A World-without-end Bargain In.

As I Hope For Quiet Days, Fair Issue, And Long Life, With Such Love As 'tis Now, The Murkiest Den, The Most Opportune Place, The Strong'st Suggestion Our Worser Genius Can, Shall Never Melt Mine Honour Into Lust, To Take Away The Edge Of That Day's Celebration, When I Shall Think Or Phoebus' Steeds Are Founder'd Or Night Kept Chain'd Below.

Alack, There Lies More Peril In Thine Eye Than Twenty Of Their Swords: Look Thou But Sweet, And I Am Proof Against Their Enmity.

For Death Remembered Should Be Like A Mirror, Who Tells Us Life’s But Breath, To Trust It Error.

Rumour: "upon My Tongues Continual Slanders Ride, The Which In Every Language I Pronounce, Stuffing The Ears Of Men With False Reports.