Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes.

Not Proud You Have, But Thankful That You Have. Proud Can I Never Be Of What I Hate, But Thankful Even For Hate That Is Meant Love.

Weep Not, Sweet Queen, For Trickling Tears Are Vain.

Poor Desdemona! I Am Glad Thy Father's Dead. Thy Match Was Mortal To Him, And Pure Grief Shore His Old Thread In Twain.

Do As The Heavens Have Done, Forget Your Evil; With Them Forgive Yourself.

Now Let It Work. Mischief, Thou Art Afoot. Take Thou What Course Thou Wilt.