I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.

For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.

The latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast, Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.

I must be cruel, only to be kind.