Then love-devouring Death do what he dare.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!

I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

This is the very ecstasy of love, whose violent property ordoes itself and leads the will to desperate undertakings.

What's brave, what's noble, let's do it after the Roman fashion.

He was ever precise in promise-keeping.