Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
And what's he then that says I play the villain?
Ah, she doth teach the torches to burn bright, it seems she hangs against the cheek of night like a rich jewel from an Ethiope's ear, beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
The implacable logic of retribution will prove as appalling as the crime itself, consisting of the soul's slow agonizing descent into a state of such loneliness and despair as to be finally indistinguishable from Hell.
Tis no mean happiness to be seated in the mean.