The Good I Stand On Is My

Thus Conscience Does Make Cowards Of Us All; And Thus The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Slicked O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought

Highly Fed And Lowly Taught.

So May The Outward Shows Be Least Themselves; The World Is Still Deceived With Ornament.

Away, You Cut-purse Rascal! You Filthy Bung, Away! By This Wine, I'll Thrust My Knife In Your Mouldy Chaps, An You Play The Saucy Cuttle With Me. Away, You Bottle-ale Rascal! You Basket-hilt Stale Juggler, You!

She's Gone. I Am Abused, And My Relief Must Be To Loathe Her.