This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!

Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.

Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.

As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.

A plague on both your houses.