There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
In maiden meditation, fancy free.
He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
You told a lie, an odious damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie.
My heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand.
So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.