Like A Dull Actor Now, I Have

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

The Moon, Like To A Silver Bow New Bent In Heaven.

My Charity Is Outrage, Life My Shame; And In That Shame Still Live My Sorrow's Rage!

Report Me And My Cause Aright.

He Is Winding The Watch Of His Wit; By And By It Will Strike.