What Is Thy Sentence Then But Speechless

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?

Titus Andronicus, My Lord The Emperor Sends Thee This Word, That, If Thou Love Thy Sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, Or Thyself, Old Titus, Or Any One Of You, Chop Off Your Hand And Send It To The King: He For The Same Will Send Thee Hither Both Thy Sons Alive, And That Shall Be The Ransom For Their Fault.

With Mirth And Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come. And Let My Liver Rather Heat With Wine, Than My Heart Cool With Mortifying Groans.

Haste Is Needful In A Desperate Case.

But What's So Blessed-fair That Fears No Blot? Thou Mayst Be False, And Yet I Know It Not.