Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
The sense of death is most in apprehension.
Examine well your blood.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!