For You And I Are Past Our

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?

For In My Youth I Never Did Apply Hot And Rebellious Liquors In My Blood.

O Madam, My Old Heart Is Cracked, It's Cracked!

A Peevish Self-willed Harlotry It Is. *she’s A Stubborn Little Brat.*

I Will Be Brief. Your Noble Son Is Mad.