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

I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.

Do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation.

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions

O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?