She Will Die If You

I Am A True Laborer: I Earn That I Eat, Get That I Wear, Owe No Man Hate, Envy No Man's Happiness, Glad Of Other Men's Good, Content With My Harm.

Is Love A Tender Thing? It Is Too Rough, Too Rude, Too Boisterous, And It Pricks Like Thorn.

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.

All Hoods Make Not Monks.

The Native Hue Of Resolution Is Sicklied O'er With The Pale Cast Of Thought; And Enterprises Of Great Pitch And Moment, With This Regard, Their Currents Turn Awry, And Lose The Name Of Action.