He Receives Comfort Like Cold Porridge.

Foul Whisperings Are Abroad

Alas, Their Love May Be Call'd Appetite. No Motion Of The Liver, But The Palate

...too Much Sadness Hath Congealed Your Blood,and Melancholy Is The Nurse Of Frenzy.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand?

'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.