Heaven Take My Soul, And England Keep

It Is In Pardoning That We Are Pardoned.

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say! One: Two: Why, Then 'tis Time To Do't. Hell Is Murky!

There Is Thy Gold, Worse Poison To Men's Souls, Doing More Murder In This Loathsome World, Than These Poor Compounds That Thou Mayst Not Sell.

He's Of The Colour Of The Nutmeg. And Of The Heat Of The Ginger.... He Is Pure Air And Fire; And The Dull Elements Of Earth And Water Never Appear In Him, But Only In Patient Stillness While His Rider Mounts Him; He Is Indeed A Horse, And All Other Jades You May Call Beasts.