O, Full Of Scorpions Is My Mind!

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

My Dear, Dear Lord, The Purest Treasure Mortal Times Afford Is Spotless Reputation; That Away Men Are But Gilded Loan Or Painted Clay... Mine Honor Is My Life; Both Grow In One; Take Honor From Me, And My Life Is Done.

I Bear A Charmed Life, Which Must Not Yield To One Of Woman Born.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

What Early Tongue So Sweet Saluteth Me?