She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.
He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.