The Devil Is A Gentleman.

Zounds! Sir, You Are One Of Those That Will Not Serve God If The Devil Bid You.

This Senior-junior, Giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent Of Love-rhymes, Lord Of Folded Arms, The Anointed Sovereign Of Sighs And Groans, Liege Of All Loiterers And Malcontents.

The Quality Of Mercy Is Not Strain'd, It Droppeth As The Gentle Rain From Heaven Upon The Place Beneath: It Is Twice Blest; It Blesseth Him That Gives And Him That Takes: 'tis Mightiest In The Mightiest: It Becomes The Throned Monarch Better Than His Crown; His Sceptre Shows The Force Of Temporal Power, The Attribute To Awe And Majesty, Wherein Doth Sit The Dread And Fear Of Kings; But Mercy Is Above This Sceptred Sway; It Is Enthroned In The Hearts Of Kings, It Is An Attribute To God Himself; And Earthly Power Doth Then Show Likest God's When Mercy Seasons Justice.

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

Seems," Madam? Nay, It Is; I Know Not "seems." 'tis Not Alone My Inky Cloak, Good Mother, Nor Customary Suits Of Solemn Black, Nor Windy Suspiration Of Forced Breath, No, Nor The Fruitful River In The Eye, Nor The Dejected 'havior Of The Visage, Together With All Forms, Moods, Shapes Of Grief, That Can Denote Me Truly: These Indeed Seem, For They Are Actions That A Man Might Play: But I Have That Within Which Passeth Show; These But The Trappings And The Suits Of Woe.