And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.
Soft pity enters an iron gate.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.
You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
Have patience, and endure