The Coward Dies A Thousand

The Clamorous Owl That Nightly Hoots And Wonders At Our Quaint Spirits.

You Cram These Words Into Mine Ears Against The Stomach Of My Sense.

Iago: She That Was Ever Fair And Never Proud, Had Tongue At Will And Yet Was Never Loud, Never Lack'd Gold And Yet Went Never Gay, Fled From Her Wish And Yet Said 'now I May,' She That Being Anger'd, Her Revenge Being Nigh, Bade Her Wrong Stay And Her Displeasure Fly, She That In Wisdom Never Was So Frail To Change The Cod's Head For The Salmon's Tail; She That Could Think And Ne'er Disclose Her Mind, See Suitors Following And Not Look Behind, She Was A Wight, If Ever Such Wight Were,-- Desdemona: To Do What? Iago: To Suckle Fools And Chronicle Small Beer.

To Persist In Doing Wrong Extenuates Not The Wrong, But Makes It Much More Heavy.

Tell Me Where Is Fancy Bred, Or In The Heart, Or In The Head?