I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes—and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle’s.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.

By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run.

Soft pity enters an iron gate.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.