For Murder, Though It Have

Ay, Much Is The Force Of Heaven-bred Poesy.

Nature Does Require Her Time Of Preservation, Which Perforce, I Her Frail Son Amongst My Brethren Mortal, Must Give My Attendance To.

I Am In Blood Stepp'd In So Far, That, Should I Wade No More, Returning Were As Tedious As Go O'er.

I Will Speak Daggers To Her, But Use None.

And When Love Speaks, The Voice Of All The Gods Makes Heaven Drowsy With The Harmony.