I Will Despair, And Be At Enmity

Flesh And Blood, You, Brother Mine, That Entertain'd Ambition, Expell'd Remorse And Nature, Who, With Sebastian- Whose Inward Pinches Therefore Are Most Strong- Would Here Have Kill'd Your King, I Do Forgive Thee, Unnatural Though Thou Art.

Lord, I Could Not Endure A Husband With A Beard On His Face! I Had Rather Lie In The Woolen.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

Be Merry, And Employ Your Chiefest Thoughts To Courtship And Such Fair Ostents Of Love As Shall Conveniently Become You There.