My Hands Are Of Your Color, But

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

For Love, Thou Know'st, Is Full Of Jealousy

Be Just, And Fear Not.

One Half Of Me Is Yours, The Other Half Is Yours, Mine Own, I Would Say; But If Mine, Then Yours, And So All Yours.

The Undiscovered Country From Whose Bourn No Traveler Returns.