No Place Indeed Should Murder Sanctuarize; Revenge

Great Men May Jest With Saints; 'tis Wit In Them; But, In The Less Foul Profanation.

My Nature Is Subdued To What It Works In, Like The Dyer's Hand.

Death, That Hath Suck'd The Honey Of Thy Breath Hath Had No Power Yet Upon Thy Beauty.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

I Take Thee At Thy Word: Call Me But Love, And I'll Be New Baptized; Henceforth I Never Will Be Romeo.