Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.
It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake; he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.
I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.