O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.

And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.

Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.