The Means That Heaven Yields Must Be

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get.

Thou Art A Boil, A Plague Sore, An Embossed Carbuncle In My Corrupted Blood.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

Enough No More; Tis Not So Sweet Now As It Was Before.