If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

I am not in the giving vein today.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.

I came, saw, and overcame.