This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
We have some salt of our youth in us.
When I waked, I cried to dream again
Speak of me as I am. Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice.