Men's vows are women's traitors

I thought my heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion.

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.

The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.

He is deformed, crooked, old and sere, Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.