How Poor Are They That Have Have

Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!

No Might Nor Greatness In Mortality Can Censure 'scape; Back- Wounding Calumny The Whitest Virtue Strikes. What King So Strong Can Tie The Gall Up In The Slanderous Tongue?

I Will Be Free, Even To The Uttermost, As I Please, In Words.

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano!

My Prophecy Is But Half His Journey Yet, For Yonder Walls, That Pertly Front Your Town, Yon Towers, Whose Wanton Tops Do Buss The Clouds, Must Kiss Their Own Feet.