He Kills Her In Her Own Humor.

Let Us, Like Merchants, Show Our Foulest Wares, And Think Perchance They'll Sell; If Not, The Lustre Of The Better Yet To Show Shall Show The Better.

It Is The Very Error Of The Moon; She Comes More Nearer Earth Than She Was Wont, And Makes Men Mad.

Anger Is Like A Full Hot Horse, Who Being Allowed His Way, Self-mettle Tires Him.

Whose Heart The Accustom'd Sight Of Death Makes Hard.

Your Lordship, Though Not Clean Past Your Youth, Have Yet Some Smack Of Age In You, Some Relish Of The Saltiness Of Time.