Bassanio: Do All Men Kill All The

So Are You To My Thoughts As Food To Life, Or As Sweet Seasoned Showers Are To The Ground.

Love's Gentle Spring Doth Always Fresh Remain.

This Above All; To Thine Own Self Be True.

Grief Fills The Room Up Of My Absent Child, Lies In His Bed, Walks Up And Down With Me, Puts On His Pretty Look, Repeats His Words, Remembers Me Of His Gracious Parts, Stuffs Out His Vacant Garments With His Form

What If This Cursed Hand Were Thicker Than Itself With Brother's Blood Is There Not Rain Enough In The Sweet Heaves To Wash It White As Snow?