Love Is Merely A Madness.

My Conscience Hath A Thousand Several Tongues, And Every Tongue Brings In A Several Tale, And Every Tale Condemns Me For A Villain. Perjury, Perjury, In The High'st Degree; Murder, Stern Murder In The Dir'st Degree, Throng To The Bar, Crying All, 'guilty!, Guilty!

We Know What We Are, But Know Not What We May Be.

She's Beautiful, And Therefore To Be Wooed; She Is A Woman, Therefore To Be Won.

I Have Thrust Myself Into This Maze, Haply To Wive And Thrive As Best I May.

Now Old Desire Doth In His Deathbed Lie, And Young Affection Gapes To Be His Heir; That Fair For Which Love Groan'd For And Would Die, With Tender Juliet Match'd, Is Now Not Fair.