What Is Past Is Prologue.

Mine Honour Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honour From Me, And My Life Is Done.

Tis In My Memory Lock'd, And You Yourself Shall Keep The Key Of It.

A Hand As Fruitful As The Land That Feeds Us; His Dew Falls Everywhere.

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. . .

Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!