There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.
A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
No evil lost is wailed when it is gone.
I am ill at these numbers.
Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.