O, Where Is Loyalty? If

I Will Be Master Of What Is Mine Own: She Is My Goods, My Chattels; She Is My House, My Household Stuff, My Field, My Barn, My Horse, My Ox, My Ass, My Any Thing.

I'll Speak In A Monstrous Little Voice.

That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold When Yellow Leaves, Or None, Or Few, Do Hang Upon Those Boughs Which Shake Against The Cold, Bare Ruin'd Choirs, Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang. In Me Thou Seest The Twilight Of Such Day, As After Sunset Fadeth In The West, Which By-and-by Black Night Doth Take Away.

Either To Die The Death Or To Abjure For Ever The Society Of Men. Therefore, Fair Hermia, Question Your Desires; Know Of Your Youth, Examine Well Your Blood, Whether, If You Yield Not To Your Father's Choice, You Can Endure The Livery Of A Nun, For Aye To Be In Shady Cloister Mew'd, To Live A Barren Sister All Your Life, Chanting Faint Hymns To The Cold Fruitless Moon. Thrice-blessed They That Master So Their Blood, To Undergo Such Maiden Pilgrimage; But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd, Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives And Dies In Single Blessedness.

No Metal Can--no, Not The Hangman's Axe--bear Half The Keenness Of Thy Sharp Envy.