A Woman's Thought Runs Before Her Actions.

You'd Be So Lean, That Blast Of January Would Blow You Through And Through. Now, My Fair'st Friend, I Would I Had Some Flowers O' The Spring That Might Become Your Time Of Day.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

Guiltiness Will Speak, Though Tongues Were Out Of Use

All The Perfumes Of Arabia Will Not Sweeten This Little Hand! Oh, Oh, Oh!

Bassanio: Do All Men Kill All The Things They Do Not Love? Shylock: Hates Any Man The Thing He Would Not Kill? Bassanio: Every Offence Is Not A Hate At First.