There Is No More Mercy In Him

Men That Make Envy And Crooked Malice Nourishment, Dare Bite The Best.

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

There's Nothing In This World Can Make Me Joy.

Thyself Shall See The Act; For, As Thou Urgest Justice, Be Assured Thou Shalt Have Justice, More Than Thou Desir'st.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .