Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.

For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world, And where thou art not, desolation.

Do all men kill the things they do not love ............ The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes

We, ignorant of ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise powers Deny us for our good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers.

My love's more richer than my tongue.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.