Flower Of This Purple Dye, Hit With

Thou Dost Conspire Against Thy Friend, Iago, If Thou But Think'st Him Wronged, And Mak'st His Ear A Stranger To Thy Thoughts.

Beware Of Entrance To A Quarrel.

... And Death Unloads Thee.

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow