O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
So our virtues lie in the interpretation of the time
To do a great right do a little wrong.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.
Women's weapons, water-drops.