It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye,

How Soar Sweet Music Is, When Time Is Broke, And No Proportion Kept!

The Color Of The King Doth Come And Go, Between His Purpose And His Conscience, Like Heralds 'twixt Two Dreadful Battles Set: His Passion Is So Ripe, It Needs Must Break.

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

A True Repentance Shuns The Evil Itself, More Than The External Suffering Or The Shame.

I Will Instruct My Sorrows To Be Proud; For Grief Is Proud, And Makes His Owner Stoop.