If We Are True To Ourselves, We

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?

I Shall Despair. There Is No Creature Loves Me; And If I Die No Soul Will Pity Me: And Wherefore Should They, Since That I Myself Find In Myself No Pity To Myself?

I Hold The World But As The World, Gratiano; A Stage Where Every Man Must Play A Part, And Mine Is A Sad One.

My Cousin's A Fool, And Thou Art Another.

I Am In Blood Stepp'd In So Far, That, Should I Wade No More, Returning Were As Tedious As Go O'er.