But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.

The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you.

My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!

So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.