All dark and comfortless.

Not stepping over the bounds of modesty.

Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!

Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.

He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.