None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing

Examine Well Your Blood.

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

So May He Rest, His Faults Lie Gently On Him!

Were I The Moor I Would Not Be Iago. In Following Him I Follow But Myself; Heaven Is My Judge, Not I For Love And Duty, But Seeming So For My Peculiar End. For When My Outward Action Doth Demonstrate The Native Act And Figure Of My Heart In Compliment Extern, ’tis Not Long After But I Will Wear My Heart Upon My Sleeve For Daws To Peck At. I Am Not What I Am

But Miserable Most, To Love Unloved? This You Should Pity Rather Than Despise