He Kills Her In Her Own Humor.

There Is No More Mercy In Him Than There Is Milk In A Male Tiger.

Time Hath Not Yet So Dried This Blood Of Mine, Nor Age So Eat Up My Invention, Nor Fortune Made Such Havoc Of My Means, Nor My Bad Life Reft Me So Much Of Friends, But They Shall Find Awaked In Such A Kind Both Strength Of Limb And Policy Of Mind, Ability In Means, And Choice Of Friends, To Quit Me Of Them Throughly.

He That Will Have A Cake Out Of The Wheat Must Tarry The Grinding.

And Thus I Clothe My Naked Villainy With Odd Old Ends Stol'n Out Of Holy Writ; And Seem A Saint, When Most I Play The Devil.

My Crown Is In My Heart, Not On My Head.