Tis Mad Idolatry To Make The Service

To Persist In Doing Wrong Extenuates Not The Wrong, But Makes It Much More Heavy.

Thus Weary Of The World, Away She Hies, And Yokes Her Silver Doves; By Whose Swift Aid Their Mistress Mounted Through The Empty Skies In Her Light Chariot Quickly Is Convey'd; Holding Their Course To Paphos, Where Their Queen Means To Immure Herself And Not Be Seen.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On; And Our Little Life Is Rounded With A Sleep.

None Can Cure Their Harms By Wailing Them.

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