My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!

I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow

Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.

Truth hath a quiet breast.

I do begin to have bloody thoughts.

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.