“My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.”

“What hands are here? ha! they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather the multitudinous seas incarnadine, making the green one red.” “My hands are of your colour; but I shame to wear a heart so white. A little water clears us of this deed: How easy it is then! Your constancy hath left you unattended.”

“Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.”

“But I will wear my heart upon my sleeveFor daws to peck at: I am not what I am.”

“Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, but seeming so, for my peculiar end: for when my outward action doth demonstrate the native act and figure of my heart in compliment extern, 'tis not long after but I will wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at: I am not what I am.”

“Show me a man that is not passion's slave and I will wear him in my heart's core.”

“For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In complement extern 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at I am not what I am.”