You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.

While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.

Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am