Thrift, Thrift, Horatio! The Funeral Bak'd Meats

If It Will Feed Nothing Else, It Will Feed My Revenge.

Weed Your Better Judgments Of All Opinion That Grows Rank In Them.

I Love You More Than Word Can Wield The Matter, Dearer Than Eye-sight, Space And Liberty

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

His Forward Voice Now Is To Speak Well Of His Friend. His Backward Voice Is To Utter Foul Speeches And To Detract.