“Bear hence this body and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.”

“What if this cursed hand were thicker than itself with brother's blood, is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens to wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy but to confront the visage of offense? And what's in prayer but this twofold force, to be forestalled ere we come to fall, or pardoned being down? Then I'll look up. My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer can serve my tern? 'Forgive me my foul murder'?”

“Pardon's the word to all.”

“When we our betters see bearing our woes,We scarcely think our miseries our foes.”

“Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.”

“Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smoothBut that our soft conditions and our heartsShould well agree with our external parts?”

“I hate the murderer, love him murdered.”