For By His Face Straight Shall You

O Good Old Man, How Well In Thee Appears The Constant Service Of The Antique World, When Service Sweat For Duty, Not For Meed! Thou Art Not For The Fashion Of These Times, Where None Will Sweat But For Promotion, And Having That Do Choke Their Service Up Even With The Having. . . .

The Sense Of Death Is Most In Apprehension.

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

He Who Has Injured Thee Was Either Stronger Or Weaker Than Thee. If Weaker, Spare Him; If Stronger, Spare Thyself.

All Pity Choked With Custom Of Fell Deeds.