You Jig, You Amble, And

No Place Indeed Should Murder Sanctuarize; Revenge Should Have No Bounds.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Because I Cannot Flatter And Look Fair, Smile In Men's Faces, Smooth, Deceive, And Cog, Duck With French Nods And Apish Courtesy, I Must Be Held A Rancorous Enemy.

Fit For The Mountains And The Barbarous Caves, Where Manners Ne'er Were Preached.

What We Determine We Often Break. Purpose Is But The Slave To Memory.