I Would Not Lose So

Crack'd In Pieces By Malignant Death.

You Have But Mistook Me All The While... I Live By Bread Like You, Taste Grief, Feel Want, Need Friends. Conditioned Thus How Can You Call Me King?

Let Us Kill All Lawyers

But I, That Am Not Shaped For Sportive Tricks, Nor Made To Court An Amorous Looking-glass; I, That Am Rudely Stamped, And Want Love's Majesty To Strut Before A Wanton Ambling Nymph.

I And My Bosom Must Debate Awhile, And Then I Would No Other Company.