Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.
Look to her, Moor, if thou has eyes to see. She has deceived her father, and may thee.
Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!
...and then, in dreaming, / The clouds methought would open and show riches / Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked / I cried to dream again.
I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.
To be direct and honest is not safe.