Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen.

There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

O, had I but followed the arts!

Kindness nobler ever than revenge.

How hard it is for women to keep counsel!