Soft Pity Enters An Iron Gate.

Shall I Not Take Mine Ease In Mine Inn But I Shall Have My Pocket Picked?

Iago: She That Was Ever Fair And Never Proud, Had Tongue At Will And Yet Was Never Loud, Never Lack'd Gold And Yet Went Never Gay, Fled From Her Wish And Yet Said 'now I May,' She That Being Anger'd, Her Revenge Being Nigh, Bade Her Wrong Stay And Her Displeasure Fly, She That In Wisdom Never Was So Frail To Change The Cod's Head For The Salmon's Tail; She That Could Think And Ne'er Disclose Her Mind, See Suitors Following And Not Look Behind, She Was A Wight, If Ever Such Wight Were,-- Desdemona: To Do What? Iago: To Suckle Fools And Chronicle Small Beer.

I Will Not Choose What Many Men Desire, Because I Will Not Jump With Common Spirits And Rank Me With The Barbarous Multitudes.

I Pardon Him, As God Shall Pardon Me.

The Quality Of Nothing Hath Not Such Need To Hide Itself