I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Though Music Oft Hath Such A Charm To Make Bad Good, And Good Provoke To Harm.

O, She Misused Me Past The Endurance Of A Block.

O That My Tongue Were In The Thunder's Mouth! Then With Passion Would I Shake The World.

Cordelia! Stay A Little. Ha! What Is't Thou Say'st? Her Voice Was Ever Soft.

Constant You Are, But Yet A Woman; And For Secrecy, No Lady Closer; For I Well Believe Thou Wilt Not Utter What Thou Dost Not Know.