Say, Thou Art Mine; And Ever, My

This Above All; To Thine Own Self Be True.

If Thou Engrossest All The Griefs Are Thine, Thou Robb'st Me Of A Moiety.

Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With Cupid's Archery, Sink In Apple Of His Eye.

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy: Life Is As Tedious As A Twice-told Tale Vexing The Dull Ear Of A Drowsy Man; And Bitter Shame Hath Spoil'd The Sweet World's Taste That It Yields Nought But Shame And Bitterness.

Thou Dost Conspire Against Thy Friend, Iago, If Thou But Think'st Him Wronged, And Mak'st His Ear A Stranger To Thy Thoughts.