Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.
The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.
Report me and my cause aright.
I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.
Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.