I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.

Now I am past all comforts here, but prayer.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.

Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.

Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.